Brief Encounters
by mirrorballsymphony
Summary: A selection of drabbles/oneshots based on 64 prompts. May be funny, sad, pensive, crazy, insert-adjective-here, who knows what will happen? Examples include Vetinari dicing with skis, Tonker/Lofty fluff and the Saga of Ma Lilywhite.
1. 2am - Dr Cruces

**Out of admiration to (as she calls me) my real-life friendbeast Blame It On The Alcohol, who has written a fic a day, increasing by 100 words each day for the last month during eeeevil exams for the House MD fandom, I have decided to do a similar thing, being a raging masochist myself.**

**Prompts came from profile, and each fic will increase by 50 words. For the moment, whilst they're short, I'll post two a day, but that might go down to one once they get longer.**

**So, enjoy :)**

**2am - Dr Cruces, set during Men At Arms**

* * *

He surveyed the city. His city, now.

It twisted and turned like some intricate, bewildering spiral; some buildings arced up, escaping from the clusters of houses and shops all bundled together like the bottom of some giant handbag, from what he had heard about handbags.

This building was the tallest in the city, and as he surveyed the mayhem and thought about how quickly it could be fixed, he felt it shift a little in the wind, but reminded himself that he wouldn't fall. The structure of magic enveloped him.

He shifted slightly, and the light glinted off the gonne.

* * *

**100 words is hard... Please review/fave/whatever you want**


	2. Metaphor - Lupine Wonse

**Inspired by Colon's line in Guards! Guards! - ****_"Killed by a wossname. A metaphor."_**

Lupine Wonse, like many other beings in the city, had discovered Lance-Corporal Carrot's problem with metaphors.

As the rectangular, papery looking thing…book, that's what it was…as it curved towards him he had a distinct feeling that this was retribution for all that he had done. Well, the tiny part of Wonse that had remained in Wonse's body thought this. The rest had been invaded by greed, or power, or the sight of charcoaled images captured in terror forever, and was slowly infesting his mind. And for some reason, he felt slightly comforted by it.

Cruces could see some sort of curly writing, embossed in gold, on the front cover of the book, but didn't quite manage to reach up and grab it in time. Realising you could die makes your vision _astounding_.

And as the book hit him squarely in between the eyes, and he toppled back, Wonse smiled faintly.

**And then, of course, Nobby's line: ****_"Dunno. Looks like the ground to me."_**


	3. Sky - Granny Weatherwax

Granny Weatherwax flew through the midnight darkness, and saw every little light below as a twinkling star.

She wasn't entirely sure where she was, but she wasn't lost. It was the rest of the world that wasn't conforming to her mental map which was microscopically detailed within a few miles of Bad Ass, and merely microscopic after that. She saw a collection of lights in the distance, presumed it was Ankh-Morpork*, and avoided it on principle. It was hellish for the broomstick, and the bristles had started to fall out again.

Granny was vaguely aware that other witches would be around somewhere - they liked to keep an eye on her, just in case there were any clacks towers coming her way which needed to be moved very quickly indeed - but didn't really think about them. Up here, high in the sky which she realised now wasn't a blue layer at the top of the world, it went up and up and up until she got motion sickness, was her domain.

So much for never getting on a broomstick in her life. She had Esk to thank for that.

She flew on.

*This was wrong. Ankh-Morpork doesn't do lights.


	4. Lost Scene - Renata Flitworth

**Renata is Miss Flitworth's name from Reaper Man - she's the one who takes Death in.**

Renata stared at the wedding dress, and passed the delicate lace through her fingers as if it was spun from glass.

It was silly, she decided, to let all the food and the wine go to waste. A wedding was just a big celebration; in the end, it was the marriage that was the important part, two people becoming one, although, to Renata's mind, that seemed a bit impractical.

This would just be a wedding without a marriage.

It could have been worse. It could have been a marriage without love, without happiness. And even though she could have had all of those things, there was nothing that made her feel more despondent than the thought of all of that time going to waste.

To her, time was precious now, because she had never treated it as precious before. She imagined a tiny little hourglass with golden sand trickling through, marking weeks, days, _seconds_ that were precious to somebody. Seconds that she had already had with him and wasted, but seconds that she would treasure, that she would lock away so that no one could ever see them.

As the satin slipped through her fingers it took all the heat away from them until her hands were as cold as the snow that she knew had crushed him.

For a moment she felt the pain of the weight on top of him, slowly crushing his lungs and forcing the air out and stealing his time.

Time she shouldn't have wasted.


	5. Degrees - The Wizards

Ponder hesitantly knocked on the heavy wooden door, aware that you should never burst in on a wizard. Under wizarding law a wizard was allowed to do _anything_ in his own study to stop him doing stupid, excessively magical things in the so called 'real world'.

'Come in.'

As the door creaked open, Ponder held the...thing...out in front of him like a peace offering.

To his surprise, the Archchancellor smiled, the first time Ponder had seen him do that since the Dean had left; the rest of the time he moped around and muttered expletives. His eyes then narrowed as he looked at the object.

'What's this?'

'Well, we're not ever so sure.'

The Archchancellor took the thing from Ponder's outstretched hand and glared at it. 'Looks like some sort of glass tube. It's got some shiny stuff in it.'

'We, um, noticed that.'

'Look.' The Archchancellor seemed fascinated by the silver tube. 'It's going up.'

'Yes, well, we think it's sensitive to temperature.'

'What's it called?'

'Well, the inventor calls it the Device-For-Expanding-In-Hot-Substances.'

'Oh. A Quirm.'

'That's what Vetinari said. Originally it was invented as an expanding weapon of poisonous mercury, which, when it came into contact with human skin, spread out and burned them alive.'

'Sounds nice,' the Archchancellor said absently.

'But then he put it to better use.'

The Archchancellor was holding it upside down. 'It doesn't move when I do this.'

'Yes. We're not quite sure why.'

'Why did Vetinari give it to us, anyway?'

* * *

Vetinari was looking at the exotherm-meter, as he had named it, noticing how the liquid inside gleamed poisonously.

This was dangerous.

'Drumknott?'

'Yes?'

'Send someone from the University in, will you?'

'Yes, sir.'

The Patrician smiled. It would just get lost there.

* * *

'Oh, I don't care, Ponder. Just stick it somewhere.'


	6. Seize the Day - Ysabell

For thirty five years, Ysabell had been sixteen.

She had not liked it.

She hadn't _disliked_ it, not really, although there were only so many unflattering comments from Albert that a girl could take. She had been content more than anything, content to let time go on around her whilst she was stuck in some sort of bubble, waiting for something, anything to start.

And then it had.

The ginger, lanky boy who had mumbled and fussed and, quite frankly, made a bloody fool of himself. But he had been different, a break in the monotony of life as she knew it and had known it for too long. She hadn't liked him, but she had enjoyed the difference.

Then, like all good love literature that always includes some sort of bodice, they had fallen in love and fought the angry father, who just happened to be Death, and left.

She had seized the day, and gone back into time. It was an odd feeling at first, the feeling of life passing before your eyes in a blink, never to be retrieved. You couldn't stop life passing - you could hasten it, but never prevent it from happening. But then there had been other things to worry about, like Susan, or like her father, who had developed a penchant for wearing dungarees at home…

She had walked into his office once, and saw him hastily drop one of the biographies. On the cover had been her name, but she didn't want to ask what was in it. However, there hadn't been many pages.

Tumbling over a sheer cliff face had cut it short, she would guess.

Now, as the wind streamed through her hair like treacle, creating some sort of slow motion effect, she caught a glimpse of him.

DO YOU WANT ME TO SAVE YOU?

Ysabell thought back to the sameness, the endless wandering and waiting.

'No.'

Death gestured towards Mort, who had closed his eyes as the force arched his back up into some grotesque pose. HIM?

She looked at Mort.

'No.'

Death nodded, and clicked his fingers.


	7. Opposites - Vetinari

**"I believe you find life such a problem because you think there are good people and bad people. You're wrong, of course. There are, always and only, the bad people, ****_but some of them are on opposite sides._****" **

Vetinari surveyed his city.

Years and years ago, had he been looking, there would have been wars. Ankh-Morpork fighting Klatch, or Quirm, or Pseudopolis; they weren't choosy, it was just a case of 'Who can we fight next?' to stop the citizens getting bored, or worse, _observant_. Because the monarchy, or the government - in the end, there wasn't much difference - wasn't very nice to its citizens, preferring to occasionally execute or torture one or two to keep the others at bay.

Vetinari encouraged political opposition. It made his life more interesting, and it wasn't as if he would ever let them _win_.

He ticked the times he had tried to be replaced off his fingers. There was that business with the dragon, and then with the poisoned candles, and then the Klatchians, and then those maniacs with the imposter. Four, and there were more than that who he had rooted out and told them not to do it again. So far, it had worked.

Vetinari had been born into a world where challenging the Patrician was unspeakable, just for what the Particulars or some other group with similar aims and similar instruments would do to you. He had known friends of his parents who would be removed in the middle of the night, never to be seen again, and never to be spoken of again. Of course, he had challenged the Patrician, twice, actually, but that was different. It was him doing it.

The look of fear in Homicidal Lord Winder's eyes. The look of gluttony in Mad Lord Snapcase's, but he wasn't that much of a thinker. Certainly wasn't that much of a politician, anyway.

Vetinari had pretty much always been a politician, be it controlling and manipulating the Assassins or controlling and manipulating the city, which occasionally was a little easier - Assassins were able to think in straight lines. He didn't see why others should be in charge of the city, but he let them think that they were.

It was like one massive web that span itself around him, but no one ever saw his hands move. Sometimes strands interlocked, sometimes they broke away and were stitched back in somewhere else more useful, but more often than not they were allowed to spin wherever they wanted. Or, at least, they _thought_ they could spin wherever they wanted.

Vetinari visualised the glowing strands, and smiled.


	8. Passions Run - Carrot and Angua

Love runs like paint.

Two colours come together, intermix and intertwine, creating something different, something new and never seen before, because there are so many different colours all mixing together and no two people are the same.

Some stupid idiot a long time ago probably said what they thought was a really profound statement, which was that finding the person you loved was like finding the same shade of paint.

They were wrong.

Angua followed her and Carrot's trail. His faint green cloud, tinged with pink at the edges and golden at the centre, mixed with the yellow ochre of hers. They were still separate, but intertwined in a way that she had never seen paint do, that she had never seen anything do.

The colours, the scents, they twisted together and enveloped each other, then bounced away, only to return and repeat the whole cycle. It made her stomach sink as she watched it, so she tried to ignore it.

But, for now, the room, from edge to edge, was filled with the scent of happiness. It was pink.

As Carrot moved ever so slightly it disrupted the cloud, which around him darkened to almost cerise. The darker pinks wove themselves in with the lighter, creating a current of pink and happiness and love. Even human, which she was now, she could sense it.

In his sleep he muttered slightly, and the pink darkened to a vivid red. She stifled a laugh.

As she walked over to him she was aware of the fear pouring off her from what she had seen earlier. She poked him on the shoulder, and he opened his eyes wearily.

'Hey.'

She prodded him. 'Move over, will you?' she whispered.

She climbed into bed beside him and felt his arms weave around her, just like the paint had done. Immediately, she stiffened.

'Angua?'

'Sorry,' she mumbled. 'I'm cold.'

As he moved closer and she felt his breath on her neck she started to relax slightly, and felt the fear dissipate slightly. If she closed her eyes, this close to having Changed, she could see that the yellow was starting to mix with the green and the pink again.

_Is it that simple?_ she wondered. _I just have to stop running?_

Carrot didn't worry. Carrot didn't mess about and get frightened and run off, he just stayed there whilst she flapped and tried to hide from it. Maybe if she did the same they wouldn't keep pulling apart.

_No_, the little treacherous voice in her head said_, It's you who's pulling apart_.

'Angua?' he murmured against her neck.

'Yes?'

'Love you,' he said absently.

Angua paused for just a second.

'Love you,' she replied softly.


	9. Connections - Vetinari and Margolotta

On a clear day, if Vetinari looked out over Widdershins Broadway, he could see the clacks towers all the way to Quirm. If he looked turnwise, and squinted a little, he could see the tiny speck in the distance which was the Bonk clacks tower, which was being rebuilt after the…little incident.

Dismally, he looked at the message that had just come in, and down at his thud board.

How did she know? He had changed his strategy recently, just because she had figured out his method of playing with the trolls.

Slowly, considering every millimetre that he moved, he slid the stone carving across the board and wrote down the coordinates on a scrap of paper. After sliding the note into the tiny tube and whistling down it, he returned to the window.

He didn't know whether to be pleased or annoyed that Margolotta had rebuilt the clacks tower. The endless games of Thud provided a break from the paperwork that came with running a city as large as Ankh-Morpork, complete with endless varieties of spelling, punctuation, grammar and writing material, but on the other hand, she was steadily improving at the game, until, Vetinari knew, she would beat him. Her trollish strategy was more advanced than his already, and, to make it worse, she knew it.

He could imagine it now. Her grin as she opened the message, her coquettish moves as she slid her troll over to that space there, where she could completely eradicate his whole line of dwarfs…

Vetinari put his head in his hands.

There was a knock on the door.

'A message for you, sir.'

'Thank you, Drumknott,' he replied, not turning round. 'Place it on my table?'

'Vimes is here to see you.'

'Send him in.'

Ah, the endless paperwork of the city. Vimes entered, his helmet in his hands, with the blood spattered all over his uniform.

'Bad news, my lord?' he asked politely.

Vetinari opened the note, and stifled a groan. 'Just news, commander.'

'Who are you playing with?' Vimes said, gesturing at the board.

'Oh, no one in particular.'

Vimes's eyes narrowed at that little lie, but he didn't mention anything. 'We got the person who had been shooting little old ladies.'

'Who was it?'

'Mr Blenkinson, from Sheer Street. His mother had died.'

Just to satisfy Vimes, Vetinari asked him the question he knew the man wanted. 'And how did you capture him?'

'Well, he shot at Nobby.'

'Excuse me?'

Vimes sighed. 'He shot at Nobby, who was wearing what he calls his traffic-calming disguise - I've spoken to him, sir - who then hit him with his handbag, knocking him out, and called the rest of us. We took him to the Tanty.'

'Excellent, Commander.'

Vimes shifted slightly. 'Any news on the werewolves?'

'Not as yet.'

He saw Vimes relax slightly. 'Well, I'll be off.'

'Well done, Vimes.'

After he had gone Vetinari glared at the board again. Damn her.

Politics was a picnic compared to this.

**Feedback appreciated :)**


	10. Lull and Storm - Igor

The creaking sign above the door proclaimed to the world that this was 'We R Igors'. She had expected it to be some dark, dingy building, with disturbing creations and Frankenstein's Monster-esque inhabitants; what she hadn't bargained for was a clean, airy premises without a sign of dust or damp.

Myria LeJean pushed open the door, which, true to all of Igordom, creaked. The room could be as clean as they wanted - there was such a thing as hygiene, after all - but the door had to creak.

An unsullied Code of Igors hung behind the Igorina on the front desk. Myria joined the queue, and listened to the man in front of her moaning about gods knew what.

'And I said, I said, you can't rent me something that's been blowing up castles and creating madmen all over the shop,' he was complaining to the Igorina. 'Why aren't there any _normal_ ones about? I just need it to do some simple sewing.'

Igorina wrinkled her nose in disgust. 'We train all our Igorth in very complex thewing, thur.'

'Yes, but you also train them in butchery!'

'But they're not obligated to uthe it, thur.'

'How do I know it won't?'

'All our Igorth obey the wordth of their marthterth completely.'

As the man grumbled off Lady LeJean walked up to the tired Igorina and tried to smile. She hadn't quite mastered it, though, and it came out more as a grimace. Expressions were difficult for an Auditor to comprehend, as a species they were akin to the sort of people who needed a smiley face chart and a book written by a psychiatrist.

'Yeth?' Igorina said wearily, staring at the piece of paper on her desk. Then she looked up, and her blood ran cold.

It wasn't as if she hadn't seen beauty before. Igors worked towards beauty - usually it was the sort that meant physical perfection, such as a lovely pair of kidneys, but they knew the concept of attractiveness. Igorinas were often beautiful, in their own…_special_ way.

This beauty, though, this was creepy.

It was man made, almost, although Igorina couldn't have been further from the truth. It had obviously been based on Woman Holding Ferret, the masterpiece by Leonardo da Quirm, Igorina being more culturally aware than many of her counterparts, but with all the tiny imperfections rubbed out to create a mask of glass, like a stone statue. It was beauty that was meant to be looked at, preserved in a crystal case, not exist - someone with a very limited understanding of the human mind had created this face. There was no possibility that it was anything other than artificial.

'I'd like to hire an Igor,' Myria said calmly, although too slowly. She was still getting used to words coming out of her throat and not her...body, she supposed.

'For what purpothe?'

'Glasswork. Some sulphuric acid may be involved as well. And they must know something about clocks.'

'Clockth, mithtreth?'

'Yes. Just a little experimentation.' For some reason, Myria's face had begun to grow hot unwillingly. 'Nothing dangerous.'

'I thee. And where would they be working?'

'Ankh-Morpork.'

'Right.' Igorina scribbled something on a piece of paper. 'If you'd like to come thith way, madame, I think I have thomeone here for you.'


	11. Animal - Vetinari

Lord Vetinari wiped a single tear from his sapphire blue eyes. Today, they were slightly warmer than usual.

After seventeen years, his beloved, his everything, his Wuffles, was dead.

It was always going to happen, he knew that. Death had been something present in his life from the very beginning, from the death of his Uncle Charlie, the mime artist, who had collapsed on stage and everyone thought he was faking it, to the deaths of the previous two patricians, but they had deserved it. Especially Uncle Charlie, who he had his suspicions about.

But Wuffles had been a good dog. He had always stuck by Vetinari, who had bought him on the day he became Patrician as a kind of bet to himself about who could outlive the other. He had never chewed his masters shoes, definitely not his slippers, because Vetinari was very attached to his slippers; he had never stolen his lunch; he had never done It on the carpet. By all definitions, he was a good dog. Yes, he had smelt a bit near the end, but Vetinari was sure that if he reached a hundred he wouldn't be surrounded by the aroma of roses.

It was a simple headstone, just a shield shaped piece of sandstone with a bone carved into it. Vetinari placed a dog biscuit on top of it, and walked back into the office.

There was someone there who he didn't expect to see.

'Madam,' he said, bowing slightly.

'Oh, cut the crap, Havelock,' Madam Meserole said, sweeping in majestically and throwing her coat onto the Golden Throne of Ankh. Vetinari winced as he saw some of the rotten wood collapse.

'I'm sorry to hear about your dog,' she said, pouring herself a large glass of sherry.

'Thank you.'

'What was his name again?'

'Wuffles.'

'That's right. Bit sentimental, don't you think?'

Vetinari's aunt always perplexed him. She was the sort of woman who, in any other society, would be locked up for fear of terminal embarrassment, but in Genua she had flourished to become one of the highest ranking nobles, in Pseudopolis she was considered a role model for many young, outspoken women, and in Ankh-Morpork she played an active role in politics. That was generally because she was the aunt of the Patrician, and, in many circles, that gave you authority*.

'What do you want, Auntie?'

'I wanted to see how my favourite nephew was doing,' she replied, taking a slurp of the drink.

'That's the alcohol talking. What do you want?'

She looked at him firmly. 'When are you going to find someone, Havelock?'

'What do you mean?'

'Your last relationship has now gone, and I feel that you should be looking for another.'

'You want me to marry someone,' he stated.

'Pretty much.'

'Anyone in mind?' he said dryly.

'Well, there was that vampire you were seeing.'

Vetinari nearly spat out his drink. 'How did you get to know about that?'

'Oh, it's common knowledge, dear. A dot dot dot relationship, apparently.'

'My relationship with Lady Margolotta is merely professional,' Vetinari was trying to recover some semblance of dignity, and it wasn't working. His aunt had that effect on him.

'Of course it is. And now I must be going.' Lady Meserole stood up and downed the last of her sherry.

'Wait, that's it?'

'Of course. I have no interest in the dog. I'm merely interested in the future of the family.'

'And my relationship with a _vampire_ is something you would want?'

'It makes my life a little more interesting.'

* * *

*Especially in those circles frequented by journalists


	12. Children - Sam Vimes

The days were shorter, somehow, back then.

Sir/Excellency/His Grace Samuel Vimes, Duke of Ankh, Commander of the City Watch, walked along Cockbill Street and remembered.

Here, now this was where the hopscotch was, where the boys had tried to kick William Scuggins; Vimes had managed to get to the tenth square once before William had seized his ankle and refused to let go, which was pretty much the definition of pride in a society full of boys.

He proceeded at a regular pace down the street, seeing the place where he had first been kneed in the goolies; where he had attacked Lupine Wonse, that smarmy bastard; where he had first asked Doreen Winkins out on a date when he was ten and she slapped him round the face, which counted as a relationship in his books. And here, here was where he saw his first ever copper, and thought 'I want to be like you'.

There were watchmen aplenty here now. True, there was a time where setting foot in the Shades made you lunch and dinner for a family, with the boots being used as seasoning, but those days had gone. People here looked at you not with friendliness, that would be taking it a bit far, but with the beginnings of respect.

As he got to the end of the road - it was shorter than when he had played football between the narrow alleyways - he saw Sergeant Angua leaning against the wall.

'You all right?' he asked, lighting a cigar.

'Just waiting for Carrot.'

There was a hoarse scream from the upstairs window, and Carrot's patient voice could be heard reading out the man's rights.

'Oh, for gods' sakes,' Angua muttered.

'Why are you down here?'

The world exploded in a crash of breaking glass and shouting as the luckless man jumped out of the window, was sliced to bits by the flying crystals, and landed heavily right next to Angua, who leisurely put her foot on his neck. He gave up, and stopped screaming.

'That's why I'm down here,' Angua informed him.

'Did you get him?' Carrot called.

'Yep.'

'Teamwork at its very finest,' Vimes commented as Angua clapped handcuffs around the man's wrists, making sure that they were behind his back first. A man with his hands in front of him had too much power.

Carrot appeared in the doorway. 'I didn't finish reading out his rights, though.'

Angua looked at the man kindly. 'Would you like to hear the rest of your rights? Or would you like to come down to the watch house and get that seen to?' She pointed to the deepest gash on his leg, and Vimes could see her trying not to inhale.

The man gulped. 'Stitches.'

'Carrot, I think he's okay.'

Vimes put a hand on the man's shoulder and turned him round to face him. Even through the mask of alcohol, blood and bruises he could recognise the man.

'William?' he asked.

'Sam?'

Angua looked between them. 'You two know each other?'

'We grew up together.'

'Well, that fits. You're drunk, he should be drunk.'

'Sergeant,' Vimes said firmly. 'What did you get him for?'

'Forgery. He's not bad.' She held up a sheet of two penny stamps, and Vimes admired the tiny drawing.

'Since when did you learn to draw?'

'I've always bin drawin',' William said. 'You lot didn't care, though. You used to stamp on them.'

'Look, William, I'm sorry about that.'

He shrugged. 'No need. You were just a kid.'

'Yeah, but it's not right.'

'You were just a kid,' William repeated. 'Don't matter. Though I'd be grateful if you'd be lettin' me off.'

'Done.' Vimes unclipped the cuffs. 'I'll be seeing you.'

'Hope not.' William grinned, and Vimes saw the expression of the little kid in it. 'Bye, Sam.'

That was a memory that made the street a little brighter for him.


	13. We All Run On - Death

The five Horsemen of the Apocralypse thundered through the stormy night...

It didn't sound right.

Death absentmindedly chewed his pencil, and stared down at the line of gothic handwriting. There was something undoubtedly wrong about it all, but he didn't quite know what.

'Have you bin writin' again?' Albert queried. 'Because you know it does terrible things to you.'

HMM..? Death was completely absorbed in the writing.

Albert sighed, and plonked the stack of books down onto Death's desk, which was barren save the notebook. 'Here you go. Right from the very back.'

THANK YOU.

'Took me ages to find 'em. Had to go up all those ladders, did my back in terrible. What do you need 'em for, anyway?'

JUST SOME LIGHT READING.

'Yeah, right. You had a tiff with one of your mates in the _'Apocalypse Club'_ again?'

PARDON?

'You had an argument with that War? Or was it Famine this time?'

IT WAS NONE OF THEM.

'I don't like Famine,' Albert mused. 'I mean, he don't have an ounce of compassion in him. War's alright, just thick, and that Chaos is nice enough, but Famine's just creepy. And Pestilence, I'm always ill after he's bin.'

THAT WILL BE ALL, ALBERT.

'Yes, master.'

As soon as the heavy oak door had slammed behind Albert Death turned to the heavy, leather bound volumes. They looked old, but had a timeless quality to them - the leather was good quality, as well. Whoever these books were about, they were designed to last.

On the top book was printed, in embossed letters, FAMINE.

Death was alright with Famine, really. Compassion wasn't much called for in the world of the anthropomorphic personifications, but Famine went about his job with efficiency, not style. Death trusted efficiency a lot more than he did glamour.

There were four books in total, and Death realised what was wrong about his sentence.

There should only be four.

Four Horsemen of the Apocralypse. It would make life so much more simple. Two pairs, no one was ever left out, and, if needed, they could share a couple of curries, although Pestilence preferred pizza, but even that was easier to share with four.

There just had to be four.

It was obvious that Death would stay. Well, obvious to him, as it wasn't much fun thinking yourself the outsider of the group. But Pestilence, now he was a funny one. Always looking at people across the room in a funny way, always coughing purposely on a nurse's uniform; Death knew it was his job, but he didn't have to be so vulgar about it, did he? Albert was right, Famine was a bit cruel, look at all those little babies. And War, when you came down to it, was just pathetic, ruled by his muscles rather than his head and riled by the slightest thing.

What he didn't expect, though, was what happened the following day.

* * *

CAN WE CALL THIS MEETING TO ORDER? Death asked grumpily.

Famine looked at him. 'Oh, quit it with the order stuff. Why do we need it, anyway?'

'Um, guys.'

WE NEED ORDER. OTHERWISE THERE WOULD BE ANARCHY.

'Really? Us? _Anarchy?_ No, I would _never_ have guessed that.'

'Um-'

Death turned to Chaos in frustration. WHAT?

'I have something to say,' Chaos said nervously.

GO ON, THEN.

'I just wanted to say that it's been great, really it has, but I feel the time has come for me to leave.'

'What?'

WHAT?

'I want to pursue a solo career.'

'Solo career?' Famine spat.

'It's been good, but five's not right. And I want a change.'

'You're the personification of Chaos!'

'I was thinking deliveries,' Chaos said thoughtfully. 'I'm not cut out for this sort of fame.'

Death regarded him coldly. FINE. HAVE IT YOUR WAY.

Relief poured off Chaos. 'So...I can go?'

'We're not going to stop you.'

'Four's nice.'

Death shrugged. I'LL MISS YOU?

'Yeah, right. I was the fifth wheel.'

TRUE.

'But we can still be friends. I mean, if you need me, you can call me.'

WE'LL DO THAT. Death tried to smile.

* * *

The Four Horsemen of the Apocralypse thundered through the stormy sky...

It sounded better. It didn't feel better.


	14. Chess - Death

And this is the Discworld, where reality is relative and can occasionally splinter off, forming worlds within worlds from the imaginations of needy, naïve people who really should know better than to invent the tradition where you challenge Death for your life. It might actually come true.

It did.

Dicing with Death. He didn't like the tradition, but felt it prudent not to complain. Humanity got a little edgy when the anthropomorphic personification of _death_ turned up on the doorstep and demanded to speak to the manager.

For one thing, it made them wonder who the manager actually was.

Death never, ever lost. But this man was giving him a run for his money, however hypothetically.

He surveyed the black and white board grumpily. ARE YOU SURE YOU STILL WANT TO PLAY CHESS?

The man smirked. 'I _was_ the chess champion for three years running. You should know that.'

I SKIP PAST THE BORING BITS, Death muttered.

It wasn't as if there was anything particularly wrong with chess, it was just that to a being who had seen the demise of a lot of kings and had discovered that in the blood department everyone was the same, it was incomprehensible what made them so much better than anything else on the board. If a couple of the knights mutinied, the rooks were defeated by the pawns, and even the bishops appeared to give the protesters a bit of morale, the board could have become a republic. But no, it was the kings that were important.

The man moved a bishop one space and wiped out Death's queen. Like every other figure on the board, she was a skeleton.

He picked it up and turned it around in his spectral fingers. 'Why skeletons?'

WHY NOT SKELETONS

'It's a bit stereotypical, isn't it?'

Death cleared his throat in annoyance. I _AM_ A STEREOTYPE.

The man wore the unsteady smile of one who had not expected that answer. 'Well, of course, but you don't have to conform to every belief, do you?'

IT IS TRADITION. YOU DO _NOT_ ARGUE WITH TRADITION. AFTER ALL, IT IS YOU LOT WHO INVENTED ME.

The man obviously detected a note of irritation in the funeral tones of Death's voice, and decided not to press him further. He simply moved a pawn, and removed Death's bishop from eternity. As they defeated each other's pieces the figures crumbled into dust, which swirled through the still air and disappeared. Death thought it added to the atmosphere.

ARE YOU SURE YOU DON'T WANT EXCLUSIVE POSSESSIONS?

'Completely.'

Death sighed, and concentrated on the board. It wasn't even like him losing the game would make any difference at all to this man's afterlife - he was going to whichever circle of Hell was designed for obsessive games players and people too smart for their own damned good - but it wouldn't do his street cred any favours.

Finally, after staring at the board for a few more moments - any normal time frame didn't apply here - he spotted the trick. He moved a pawn, and watched as the man's knight gently dissolved.

'Why couldn't I be black?' the man complained.

TRADITION AGAIN, I'M AFRAID.

'I always used to be black.' The man stared at the board, and noticed something. 'Hey-'

Death raised his eye bones. YES?

'Nothing.' He moved his queen to vanquish a pawn, trying to ignore the circle of pawns which had surrounded his King. By removing one of them, he allowed another to access the king.

CHECK.

'Oh, all right, I know.'

Death clicked another seemingly irrelevant pawn to stand behind another, until the man could visualise his king surrounded by the massed proletariat.

Where had Death learnt politics? Well, you know what they say about him and taxes…

He sighed. 'Checkmate, yes?'

Death moved one last skeletal pawn, and the kind disintegrated in a plume of black smoke. YES.

'So I can't go back?'

OH, YOU NEVER COULD. THEY JUST LIKE TO GIVE HUMANS A LITTLE BIT OF HOPE.

'Who do?'

Death shrugged under his cloak of midnight darkness. THEY DON'T TELL ME.

The man brightened considerably. 'Well, at least I can tell people that I nearly beat Death in a chess game. There's no chance of a replay, is there?'

NO, I'M AFRAID NOT. TRADITION ONLY GOES SO FAR.

'Never mind.'

The man vanished in a cloud of mist.

Death sighed, and cleared the board with one sweep of his sleeve. This was getting out of hand.


	15. Duty - Wizards

The tyrant's word was law, even if it wasn't so much a word as a knowledgeable smile.

Ponder Stibbons, luckless wizard who had the misfortune to be in the wrong place at the wrong time when the Archchancellor stormed in from his visit to the Palace, stood at a stall in the middle of Sator Square.

After discovering that the majority of the university's income went on food, especially cheese - although, as the Dean had said, you can't be having poor quality cheese - the Patrician had ordered them to fulfil their duty to the city which was, apparently, promoting education. Ponder had always though it was just eating a lot.

It had either been this or actually forcing the staff to do some teaching, which, considering the disaster of Dr Hix's lesson where they had been fighting zombies for weeks, was not going to happen. Some of the professors had set fire to the classrooms, some had fallen asleep during their lessons and others had bored their students to sleep. The city would never need another fake cure for insomnia again.

Unfortunately, Ponder had the sort of hopeful face that infuriated people like the Archchancellor, so had been given the job of organising, and doing, the free school. His perk was free paperclips and unlimited pencils, which, after a while, lost their attraction.

He cleared his throat awkwardly. 'Free learning!' he shouted.

A couple of people looked around at the call, but kept on walking.

'Free-'

'I would be grateful if you would teach me,' a disembodied voice said.

Ponder looked down and saw the young boy, dressed head to toe in frills and lace, including his scalp, who stared up at him scarily keenly. Immediately, Ponder diagnosed him with Attention-Surplus Syndrome.

'Um, yes.' Ponder hadn't really prepared for what would happen if he got a customer. 'What do you want to learn?'

'What are you teaching? And what's that little box for?'

Ponder had brought out his thaumometer, and was waving it around. To his complete lack of surprise, it didn't register anything.

'Well, I could try and teach you how to light a fire.'

'What's the box for?'

'Oh, it measures magical potential.'

'Oh, I'm sure I'm full of it,' the boy preened. 'Mother's always saying how talented I am.'

'Well, um, hold this,' Ponder handed him his staff. 'And sort of, wave it around.'

The boy did so, and nothing happened. 'It's broken.'

'No, I just don't think it likes you,' Ponder said uncomfortably. 'Staffs generally stick with one owner,' he lied.

'It must. I've always wanted to be a wizard, you know. I've read books on it and everything, and I know you don't have to be an eighth son of an eighth son, and I'm only a first son.'

'You don't say,' Ponder murmured.

'Oh, yes. I think I'm going to apply for a scholarship, you know.'

'I'm not sure we do those.'

'Oh, of course you do. I spoke to one of your alumnae.'

Ponder, who was sure both that seven years old was too young to know the word 'alumnae' and that only one wizard would be as stupid as to tell this child that he had any chance at wizardry, asked the question he really didn't want to. 'Who was this alumnus?'

'He said his name was Rincewind. He had a hat which said 'Wizzard' on it, but with two 'z's.'

Ponder sighed. 'He's our Egregious Professor of Geography.'

'What's that?'

'I don't really know. I think it's just to make sure he doesn't do anything stupid.'

'He said he saved the world once.'

'By accident. He didn't do it deliberately.'

'That's why I want to learn about magic,' the child informed him. 'So that I can learn how to save the world and all its citizens.'

Ponder, too kind to destroy a child's dreams, and too loyal to force one of his colleagues to teach him, spent the next half an hour teaching the child absolutely nothing. He simply forced the match to light out of sheer embarrassment.

'Hey look, I can do it.'

'Well done,' Ponder said weakly, for the several hundredth time.

* * *

The next day, Ridcully reported extreme stress and guilt on Ponder's part, as well as an urge to get away from the city as soon as possible. He said that the little boy who he had lied to was haunting his dreams, and Ridcully had prescribed him dried frog pills, fresh air (which was hard to come by) and a break from teaching.

'I don't think that he's cut out for teaching. The stupidity scared him a little.'

'It can do that,' the Patrician said knowledgeably. 'Never mind, though. I won't force him to do it again.'

'Really?'

'Of course not. Next week, you're up.'


	16. Rip - Granny Weatherwax

Esme Weatherwax stitched the rip in her old, tattered dress with tiny stitches, each one precise as the next. From downstairs came the sound of shouting.

She finished the length of sewing and held the fabric up to the light to check for any more holes. As she spotted a lighter area where the fabric was worn away she picked up a black patch from the pile beside her, rethreaded the needle and bent over her work again.

This was her only black dress, and it was important. Most of her clothes were inherited from Lily, but this one was all her own, she'd bought it from the travelling market that came through Bad Ass once a month with money she'd raised by selling her herbs*. Lily wouldn't be seen dead in shabby black.

*These weren't ordinary herbs, though, these could be weaponised. Even then Esme distrusted anything where its only purpose was to stuff chickens.

Her sister's voice came echoing through the thin walls of the house as she screamed at her father.

'What, be one of those hedge witches?' she roared. 'Not on my life!'

Lily had always had a problem with practical magic. She was arguably more talented than Esme, but Esme made her bit of witchcraft work harder than hell, whilst Lily preferred to loiter around and wait for some magic wand to produce sparkles and whisk her away.

Talking about magic...

Esme pulled the black dress over her skinny form, pinned back her hair and climbed out of the window, closing it quietly. It was only a couple of feet above the ground, and she landed easily on the worn out grass in front of the house. She squinted up at the hills where she could see Nanny Gripes's cottage, high in the hills, away from everyone else.

She started walking.

She was never going to be Chosen, she knew that. No one wanted to have to train stubborn Esme Weatherwax, no matter how many hats she exploded.

So, now she would choose.

As she arrived in front of the old witch's cottage the door swung open to meet her. She wasn't surprised, she had seen the rabbit keenly watching her half a mile back.

As she walked into the dingy house, she caught sight of Nanny Gripes lying on a bed in the sitting room. She didn't run over to shake her awake, knowing that would disturb the rabbit no end, but just simply sat on a chair and waited.

'You might of knocked,' the voice of Nanny Gripes said from the bed about ten minutes later.

'Didn't want to wake you,' Esme said politely.

'I didn't put you down as a Borrower,' Nanny said, rolling over and trying to wash her ears. Esme simply shrugged.

'Tea?' the old woman asked.

Esme had experienced what Nanny Gripes thought of as 'tea' before, and didn't want to repeat the experience. 'I'm fine, thanks.'

'I heard your pa and your sister arguin' again,' Nanny informed her, as Esme stayed resolutely silent. 'Got a lot of talent in her, has your sister. Your ma was the same.'

Esme sat up slightly taller. 'Unlike me, you mean?'

'No. You've got enough, but you've got more pride'n her. That counts for something.'

Esme nodded. 'You said you would teach me.'

'I don't think I need to. You've been comin' here every night for the last week to make sure I ain't going gaga, that's teaching enough.'

'But I want to learn.'

'There's nothing I can teach you, girl,' Nanny Gripes said simply. 'You can Borrow already, you just need a bit more practicin', true, you could learn a bit more about herbs, but you're good enough-'

'Then teach me all of that.'

'I don't need too.'

'Look, Nanny, no one'll ever think of me as a witch unless I've trained under someone.'

'And that's what you want.' Nanny laughed. 'You're all pride, Esme.'

'That ain't a bad thing.'

'No, it ain't. Tell you what, I'll teach you all I know.'

It took Nanny Gripes a week.

'There. That's it. You're better'n me.'

'I know.'

'But I'd like you to stay.'

'Fine.'

'Just so's I can keep an eye on you. Make sure you don't do anything stupid.'

'Course.'

Esme knew the real reason for Nanny Gripes wanting her to stay. She had walked downstairs one night to see Nanny Gripes asleep on the sofa with the kettle on her feet and a cat paw print on the stove. She had cleaned the cooker of burnt cat hair, coaxed Mr Tiddles out from underneath the sink with the toy mouse, and sat down on the sofa to mend one of Nanny Gripes's skirts.

Eventually, Nanny woke up. 'What's going on?'

Esme could see the confusion in her misty eyes. 'Couldn't sleep,' she lied.

Nanny looked down at her feet, where the soot blackened kettle was staining her socks. 'Oh.'

'I'm sorry, Nanny.'

'You'll stay, won't you?' Nanny asked, a slight pleading note to her voice.

'Yes.'

A couple of minutes later, Nanny raised her head again. 'You'll stay, won't you?'


	17. Missing Time - Susan Sto Helit

The perfect moment.

Susan pushed against Lobsang's chest and took a deep breath, feeling her face grow warm. He looked worriedly at her.

'Do you want to stop?'

'Yes,' she blurted out. Seeing his face fall, she relented. 'No, I don't mean that. I mean not _here_.'

'Where are we?'

'In my supply cupboard.'

He looked around, spotted the paint pots, the rolls of backing paper and The Scissors, which were hidden behind a stapler to protect them from The Five-Year Olds. 'Oh.'

'Exactly. And I have some children with very good hearing.'

'Miss Susan?' Vincent called. 'Can I have my star now? I've finished my work.'

Susan turned back to Lobsang. 'Look, I'll meet you somewhere when I get out of work.'

'I know where you live.'

_Well, that's not creepy at all._ 'Sounds like a date,' she said weakly.

'Miss Susan?'

'Look, I've got to go,' she said hurriedly. 'I'll-' she rummaged around, trying to find a silver star in the clouds above her head, 'I'll see you later.'

He kissed her again, briefly, and disappeared with a faint pop. She had a distinct feeling that it was to impress her.

As she walked out of the cupboard she tried to smooth her dress down as best as she could.

'What were you doing, Miss Susan?' Vincent asked.

'Finding the stars.'

'But they're right at the front of the cupboard.'

'I needed to find a new packet.'

'But the packet I got out last time was a new one.'

Susan considered herself a good liar. You had to be, in a society of children who had a tendency to ask awkward questions such as 'What were you doing in the supply cupboard?' There were easy questions, like 'Why are we now in 18th Century Quirm?' and then there were the difficult ones like 'What are passionate parts?', but every teacher learned to improvise, make up ridiculous lies and, whenever possible, blame the student.

'Well, maybe you put them back in the wrong place,' she said harshly.

'Miss Susan?'

'Yes, Melanie?'

'Why are you blushing?'

'Maybe it's hot in the supply cupboard,' she said wearily. She was never, ever going to tell them that their teacher had spent the last five minutes kissing the incarnation of Time in the supply closet surrounded by paper stars.

'Get back to your work, children.'

Lobsang was waiting for her outside her flat in Peach Pie Street, holding a bouquet of cherry blossoms. She smiled at him wearily. 'Hey.'

'You okay?'

'Oh, you know kids. Always asking awkward questions.'

'Like why you've got bite marks on your neck and your lipstick's smudged?' he asked, eyebrows raised.

She quickly put a hand to her neck. 'Have I?'

'Not yet.'

She held up a hand. 'Wait, Lobsang, for just one moment. What exactly were you planning to do?'

He looked a shade affronted. 'I just wanted to see you again.'

'Surely, if you're both Jeremy and you you'd now have a crush on Unity?'

He frowned slightly. 'Somehow that hasn't been transferred across. And I'm not Jeremy, in the same way that Jeremy wasn't me. I've just now learnt how to make really intricate clocks and I've become slightly more obsessive.'

Susan managed to get the key in the lock and opened the door to her flat, which, like her grandfather's, was sparsely decorated in black. Occasionally, there was a glimmer of purple. Once inside, she dropped her bag, which was heavy with marking, onto the kitchen table and forced herself to relax.

'Do you want a drink?'

'Susan?'

She turned around, and he was standing in front of her, so close that she could feel the heat coming off him and smell the faint aroma of cherries. 'Yes?' she asked, trying to look calmer than she actually felt.

He kissed her again.

And, for Susan Sto Helit, the Discworld moved.

As she woke up, staring at the ceiling and assuring herself that it was _her_ ceiling, and no one else's, she remembered the night before.

She also remembered that the anthropomorphic personification of Time had very good muscles. That had been an interesting revelation.

Then she remembered that it must be after seven o'clock, because she had heard the clink of the bottles as Ronnie Soak had come round, but had ignored it, preferring to concentrate on his heavy breathing beside her. And with that came the revelation that she was _late for work_.

The irony that sleeping with Time had made her late for work wasn't lost on her.

Panicking, she got out of bed and pulled on her clothes which had been strewn around the room. Her hair, always problematic, had turned itself into her own cloud of white fluff, which tangled itself around her hairbrush.

'Bugger,' she muttered.

'Susan?'

'Can't - stop,' she said, trying to wrench the brush out of the bird's nest, 'late - for - work.'

'I can sort that out.'

She looked at him in surprised. 'Isn't that exploiting your powers and whatnot? Using time for your own advantages?'

'Maybe. So, do you want me to or not?'

She shrugged, trying to conceal the grin that was stretching across her face. 'Sure.'

As he reached round the back of her neck to pull her closer he whispered something into her ear.

'What was that?'

'I said it's Saturday.'

Susan considered this for a moment, and kissed him.


	18. Crest - The Watch

'Are you sure this is a good idea?' Angua asked uncertainly, staring at the little boat which bobbed unsteadily on the murky water.

'I've told you, it's not my idea, it's the Patrician's,' Vimes said, gingerly testing the boat's strength.

'Since when did he decide it would be a good idea to have a water Watch?'

'After the smuggling increased.'

'So we now have to learn to sail,' Angua sighed. 'This isn't even a sailing boat.'

'It isn't?'

Angua pointed to the sky, where there was a noticeable lack of sail in the grey sky. 'This is a rowing boat.'

'He probably wanted us to start off with the easy stuff.'

Vimes finally managed to clamber into the boat, followed by Angua and Constable Ping. They tried to make themselves comfortable as Vimes and Ping took an oar each, and Angua sat at the front of the boat, glaring at the sea in front of them. It looked too much like a bath.

'Angua, do you know how to row?' Ping asked.

'I thought you did. And that's Sergeant.'

Vimes grinned, and handed her an oar. 'You're up.'

'Seriously, Ping, you can't figure out how to row a boat? I thought you knew something about boats.'

'I do. I just don't know how to sail one, or row one.'

Vimes looked perplexed. 'So why did you tell us you knew about boats?'

Angua sighed, and nearly clocked Ping over the head with her oar as the boat rocked. 'So you're a boat enthusiast, I bet. You can name every part and give us an in-depth description of the history of sailing, but you get seasickness?'

'About that-'

Thankfully, the boat was still moored. 'Ping, can you go and get Visit?' Vimes asked wearily. 'He's on the dock somewhere.'

As Ping scurried off Angua turned to Vimes. 'Why Visit?'

He shrugged. 'He seemed to know enough when we were on that boat to Klatch. Hey, maybe one of the gods'll bless us.'

A panting Constable Visit arrived, and stared at the boat. 'That's not a sailing boat.'

'Washpot, we've been through this. Do you know anything about rowing?'

'Well, I was the rowing champion back in Omnia, but I was always better at sailing.'

'Never mind. Hop in.'

As Visit managed to fall into the boat Vimes handed an oar to him. 'As the commander I order you two to row this boat.'

'Thanks, sir.'

'You're welcome. Now I'll go to the front of the boat and enjoy the scenery.'

After a few minutes and several pointed coughs from Angua, he turned round in annoyance. 'Why aren't we going anywhere?'

'You need to untie us.'

'Oh.'

The boat travelled unsteadily forwards into the open sea.

* * *

They were about half a mile from the shore when the wave came.

Vimes squinted into the distance. 'The sea looks higher over there.'

'That means there's a wave coming,' Visit said helpfully. 'Like when Aaron was stranded-'

'Yeah, we get it, Visit.'

As Visit and Angua, who had now established a shaky rowing rhythm, moved them towards the wave, Vimes got a sense of the scale of this wave. It was more of a tsunami.

'Visit, just look ahead, will you?'

Visit stared into the distance. 'That's a big wave, sir.'

'You know, I was just thinking that. When do you think it'll reach us?'

'Oh, two, three minutes, sir.'

'Not long enough to row out of the way?'

'Well, we could try to turn round.'

Awkwardly, with much enthusiastic shouting on Visit's part and sarcasm from Angua, they managed to turn the boat around.

'Hey, look, there's the watch house.'

'Not important, Constable,' Angua said, wiping her hair out of her eyes. 'The important thing is when that wave's going to-'

The wave hit.

Vimes and Visit, who had sensed the rumble of it, managed to grab hold of the sides of the boat as the torrent of green water sloshed over them, but Angua was catapulted out of the front of the boat as the tsunami hit. Vimes could just see her pale form being carried away by the rush of water.

The wave was gone as soon as it arrived, leaving a faint trail of destruction, only one oar and one or two bewildered fish floundering in the bottom of the boat. Dimly, they could hear Angua shouting.

'It's bloody freezing!'

She was treading water in the middle of the sea, and had a rather fetching piece of seaweed over one eye. She had managed to grab hold of the dislodged oar, and was spinning around with the current.

'Coming, sergeant,' Vimes called. 'How do you turn this around?'

Slowly, the boat span towards Angua, whose skin was starting to turn a faint blue, and she grabbed hold of the side. Vimes wrenched her up, and plonked her in the middle of the boat.

'Home, I think.'

Angua glared at him out of a mask of hair. 'I think so.'

'Visit, give her your jumper.'

'Why?'

'Because I know the symptoms of hypothermia.'

Angua pulled the jumper over her head and curled up between the two of them, who were both dejectedly holding the oars. 'Thanks.'

Vimes didn't turn his head, just kept staring at the piece of wood in front of him. 'Oh, it's not for you. It's just that Carrot'll murder me if I let you freeze to death.'

'It wouldn't kill me.'

'Yeah, but it might come close.'

As Angua dried out in the middle of the boat Vimes tried to get to grips with the concept of oars, and swore that he was going to kill Vetinari.

The concept of a Sea Watch was never brought up again.


	19. Itch - Greebo

There was an annoying itch on Greebo's shoulder, but he ignored it. Itches happened all the time to a cat, although most fleas had learnt to avoid this particular cat for fear of being visited by the Death of Fleas, who, however pleasant, wasn't the best omen for things to come. Furthermore, he travelled on the Death of Rats who simply did not want to play with Greebo. It was hard to dismember an immortal skeleton.

As he swaggered through the centre of Lancre, leaving a wave of terrified humans and wholesale destruction in his path, he knew that he owned the place. He was dimly aware that there was some sort of man who thought that _he_ owned the place, and that whenever he came round Nanny's daughter-in-laws bent at the knees, but Nanny just slapped the king on the back, gave him the strong stuff which made Greebo's eyes sting, especially when she mistakenly put it in his water bowl, and shouted 'Wotcher!' at him. The man then turned bright red, which Greebo didn't think was a particularly dignified colour for a king, and gulped the strong stuff down like there was no tomorrow.

Greebo didn't really understand humanity, it all seemed to be a bit complicated for him. He was dimly aware that he had been a human once, and Nanny had made odd noises whilst Evil Granny went bright red and tried to look somewhere else, but the rest of the memories were fairly vague. For some reason, they involved fish heads.

On his way past another cat, an attractive female who he had impregnated ooh, ten times or so, he noticed her looking at him oddly. Or rather, something on his back.

Slightly perturbed, he carried on stalking through the town. A couple of children tried to stroke him, and he swiped at them uncaringly. Children were beneath him, everything was beneath Greebo when he was in a haughty mood and had forgotten about the malicious power of You.

If Greebo had been one for looking at shadows, he would have seen the tiny little figure perched on his back who was making a rather rude symbol with his outstretched hand at the child following Greebo, who ran off quickly. However, Greebo wasn't one for looking at shadows.

* * *

Rob Anybody was bored.

He had found Nanny Ogg's cat and, for fun and because everyone had said he was the devil in cat form, decided to try and climb on top of him. Although Rob knew he had been losing weight recently, due to the stress of actually being married to someone _who knew what he was doing,_ but he hadn't expected the cat to take absolutely no notice of him.

Nanny Ogg had grinned as she saw the tiny blue man travelling down the road on Greebo's back looking a little bit shocked. It wasn't that Rob didn't know how to get off, he didn't want to; his pride of actually being able to get on Greebo's back, and the possibility of what would happen if Greebo noticed him, was far too great. Besides, there were hundreds of Feegles hidden around the village.

Absentmindedly, Rob took a swig of the bottle of scumble that Nanny had given him, and his seat moved suddenly.

* * *

Greebo tried to turn round and look at his own back. It was proving difficult.

On top of him, Rob Anybody started to laugh silently.

* * *

You, still fairly kitten-like in stature but definitely not in personality, walked down the main street of Lancre, preening as someone stroked her back. Up ahead, she saw Greebo, and her back arched.

Greebo caught sight of You at the end of the street, completely forgot about the itch and started to flee.

You, in an odd cat way, started to smile as she sprinted after him, claws unsheathed and making sparks fly up from the cobbles.

As Greebo rounded a bend and You made to gain on him, a tiny blue man flew off the back of the leading cat, pulling clumps of fur out of Greebo's already scar-covered back and screaming 'Crivens!'

And the world erupted into tiny blue men.

They poured out from nowhere, out of trees, out of the ground, out of the sky, it seemed. They swarmed between You and Greebo, and ended up pointing tiny daggers at anyone who dared move.

You glared at them haughtily, and a few of the brighter ones bowed. The ones who were facing Greebo hissed, and he took stepped back, whining.

'We willnae stand back when one of our own is needing some assistance,' one of them said.

'Hey! I didnae need assistance?'

'Ye was flyin', Rob,' Daft Wullie piped up.

'How d'ya ken I didn't wanta be?'

'Because you was screamin', Rob.'

You meowed faintly, but it wasn't a traditional cat meow. It was, if You had been human, a haughty clearing of the throat whilst sat on a golden throne wearing a jewelled crown. It was a meow with _harmonics_, it said that the subjects had better bow pretty damned quickly. The Feegles did so.

'Well, ahm sorry to disturb yis,' Rob told her, 'but we was playin' a bit of a game ourselves, you ken?'

Greebo took a swipe at a couple of Feegles at the front of the crowd, and yelped as a tiny dagger, as sharp as a needle, pierced his paw. He resigned himself to glaring at them, and slinking off behind a shed until he sensed they weren't looking.

You regarded the Feegles, who looked nervously looked at her. 'How is yon hag o'hags?' Rob asked politely.

You meowed.

'Really? Well that tis a shame. But I suppose she's gettin' on a wee bit.' At this, You's fur stood on end and she hissed.

'Well, give her oor regards,' Rob said quickly, stepping back. 'And noo we'll be offski.'

The Feegle crowd dissipated, and You was left as the almighty ruler. She sniffed. Greebo didn't have a chance.

* * *

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	20. Explode - Alchemists

Headcruncher, Chief Professor of Explosives in the Alchemists' Guild, surveyed his crowd of eager looking students with a dreadful foreboding feeling.

'Now,' he shouted over their talking, 'We're going to have a practical lesson.'

The room was subdued. They had been taught lots about practical lessons, for instance, how to keep your eyebrows safe and your head attached to your body, but this was their first actual _experience_ of one.

The Art of Explosions was a new department in the Alchemists' Guild, formed as part of a restructuring programme where the leaders of the Guild realised that it would be a lot more profitable to start inventing new substances and to only have a few people focusing on the whole 'gold' business, which, to be honest, they had almost given up on.

Professor Headcruncher had been made a professor on the basis of enthusiasm rather than skill. His approach to practicals was fairly slapdash, with a large amount of careless ad libbing, and was mostly made up of instructions such as _'Just bung it all in'_ when, in fact, _'Do not do this at home'_ would be more appropriate.

In front of them, the students had a phial of different metal salts, a beaker of saltpetre and a large, virtually indestructible fire extinguisher.

'Right,' Headcruncher said cheerfully, 'pour these two things into the cardboard tube.'

The students did so, with a large amount of spillage which could prove fatal.

'Then light a match.'

The students did so, and the pungent smell of sulphur filled the air as thirty matches flamed. The still, chemical atmosphere made the flame flicker blue, green and yellow at the same time.

'Now, light the end of the tube.'

The Alchemists' Guild exploded in a fountain of sparkles and bangs and coloured lights which woke up every dog in a ten mile radius, setting them off barking and cowering under chairs.

The emitted gunpowder turned the ever present white fog into an unpleasant grey and nearly eradicated the smell of the summer Ankh. Nearly, anyway.

From the rubble, a small head poked out.

'Good work, lads,' it called. ;That worked as well as can be expected. Now, can we call a register?'

There was the sound of running feet and four members of the Watch arrived. The professor, who was a dwarf, looked up at the ground then up at the tallest man, who was shouting instructions whilst the two of the watchmen were watching him in astonishment, and the other was rifling around in the rubble to see if he could find any gold. Headcruncher wished him luck.

'Um, down here?' he called hesitantly.

The tall man, who had a shock of bright red hair, turned to look at him. 'Ah, Mr Headcruncher. Do you need a hand?'

While the tall man dragged the perplexed Headcruncher out, who was fairly sure that he had never met the man so was wondering how he knew his name, the disgruntled captain turned to him and gave him a brief nod. The captain was, despite previous impressions that Headcruncher and the rest of the Disc had received, relatively sober, bordering on knurd.

He was looking in frustration at his assembled troops. 'Carrot,' he said patiently, 'this is the _Alchemists'_ Guild. It blows up once a week, they even build it temporarily just so when it explodes no one's hurt too badly. We don't need to come and investigate.'

Men and dwarfs, most with no eyebrows and frizzled hair, were emerging from the rubble and forming an orderly queue. They knew how this worked.

Headcruncher walked over to the rows and started calling out names, thankful that everyone replied. The Alchemists believed in practical training, so even if this was their first practical lesson it wasn't their first explosion.

Behind them, the captain was still arguing with the tall man, Carrot, who seemed to be a little confused. He was waving a book around.

'Carrot-'

'But it says here that it's illegal to store explosive devices!'

Vimes sighed and ran a hand through his hair distractedly. 'Carrot, this is the Alchemists we're talking about. They're people designed to go a bit crazy and occasionally blow stuff up, they're not doing anyone any harm.'

'But it says-'

'That book was written five hundred years ago! And how did you get it back?'

'The Librarian gave it back to me.'

'That bloody ape,' the captain muttered.

Headcruncher decided to chip in. 'We've got a special permit from the Patrician so that we can blow stuff up,' he said helpfully.

'May we see it?'

He passed the man the sheet of paper which was now liberally scorched, but still proclaimed to the world:

Thys organisation is permitted to Blow

Up anything (whythin reason and under

consultation wyth the Patrician) in the Interests

of Scyence.

Sygned: Havelock Vetinari, Patrician, Year of the Prawn.

Carrot murmured the words under his breath, using a finger to follow the words, then handed the note back to Headcruncher. 'Well, that all seems to be in order.'

Headcruncher glanced at the captain, who shrugged.

'As long as you don't put anyone in danger,' Carrot added hastily.

Vimes approached them apprehensively, holding a cardboard tube out in front of him. 'What's this from, Mr Headcruncher?'

'A firework.'

'Ah.' Carrot seemed to know more about what it was than Vimes, who was turning it over and examining the inside, did. 'We have them back home.'

'You're from Copperhead?'

'Yes. My father was the king of one of the clans.'

'But we don't have human-'

'It's complicated, Mr Headcruncher,' Vimes said absently, tossing the tube to him. 'Keep this technology to yourself. We don't want any more explosions.'

* * *

Three weeks later, the Alchemists' Guild exploded again.

Sitting in Pseudopolis Yard, Vimes heard the bang, saw the coloured flashes and sighed as he heard Carrot running up the stairs.

'No, we're not going to the Alchemists',' he said firmly as Carrot opened the door.

'But surely it's our-'

'No, corporal. The bloody maniacs can sort themselves out.'

* * *

Headcruncher slowly scrabbled out of what was the Alchemists' Guild, and stamped on a few unruly flames. A group of students had formed a bucket chain and were dousing the rest of the wooden building.

'Hey!' he shouted. 'I think I know what went wrong!'


	21. Rise - King Nobby I

Death tapped out a little tune on top of the book which was placed on his book. From it, there was a distinctly _organic_ smell.

On the cover was inscribed: _Ankh-Morpork_

SHOW ME, he said, SHOW ME A FUTURE.

* * *

Dragon King of Arms also sat at a desk, though his was more ornate, and rolled up the family tree that he had just finished. Visiting Uberwald had been worth it, though it just assured him more than ever that Carrot Ironfoundersson was not the person to be king. The probability of pups was too great.

He was pleasantly surprised by the record keeping of the wolves, and had spent many a day pouring over old clan records and mating histories. The werewolves, apparently, had already picked out a mate for Angua, but best laid plans and all… It had probably driven her closer to a human. But although there were a few yennorks in the family, most in recent years, the werewolf gene seemed to be holding strong.

And who wanted a king who might really be called Rex?

Still, it might be preferable to the leaders the city had had in the past. Dragon had seen the demises of a lot of kings, a few on his orders, and a werewolf might be preferable. Certainly, the torture chambers would be less inventive, and might actually be slightly more humane.

Dragon grinned gleefully, incisors glinting in the candlelight, and thought of the other alternative that Commander Vimes, that angry man, had so helpfully suggested the corporal, and how could Dragon dare defy a Commander of the Watch?

On the top of his long scroll he had written_ Descent of King Nobby I_, and thin pencil lines stemmed from it, Nobby's ancestry being somewhat ambiguous. Ambiguity was good for Dragon, though; it just helped him find more and more half-truths until, eventually, everyone would be accepting that scrawny, boil covered man as king.

He had the guilds on his side, though, with the promise of some sort of constitutional monarchy which would enable them all to have a say. Dragon didn't really think about the possible outcomes of all the guild leaders having to work together on something, nothing would spoil his plans, but knew that in whatever way possible, Ankh-Morpork _had_ to have a king.

There was just one problem…

* * *

**_In another leg of the trousers…_**

Nobby Nobbs, King of Ankh-Morpork, dressed in ermine and velvet, wriggled uncomfortably on the Golden Throne of Ankh. It was already starting to corrode.

_Mister Vimes will go spare_, he thought. _He'll go_ bursar_._

Vimes hadn't been seen since the guilds ordered Vetinari to abandoned the throne, or rather the plain leather chair behind his desk which had slightly more stability than the crumbling throne. Carrot and Angua were at the coronation, though, and he had ended up clutching at Angua's front before the ceremony began.

'Get me outa this!' he pleaded, clutching at her dress. 'Make Carrot be king! I can't do this!'

Angua prised his hands away from her. 'Then why did you volunteer. I thought you _never_ volunteered.'

'They said I wouldn't have to do anything, just shake hands and wave and stuff. And I can do _that_! It's the whole rulin' thing that's getting' confusin'.'

Angua shrugged. 'Look, Nobby, if I could do something I'd try. But I can't.'

'Make him be king!'

'How do you propose I do that?' asked Angua, her eyes narrowed.

'I don't know. How do you usually make him do stuff for you?'

The images were too much to bear. Angua tried desperately to think of something other than what she would do to Carrot if she could…

'How about a distraction?' she proposed.

'What do you mean?'

'I'll provide a distraction of some sort, and you can get out. You never have to come back.' Angua leaned forward slightly, and played her trump card. _'Mister Vimes won't have to chop your head off,'_ she whispered.

Nobby liked this alternative.

* * *

Angua was up on the balcony of the Opera House, standing next to Carrot who was looking slightly flushed. Both of them were out of uniform, Angua wearing a floaty blue thing which she kept fiddling with, and Carrot in a suit which was too small for him which he had rented out. They were standing next to the main Guild leaders, especially Queen Molly who was leering over their heads.

Angua turned to look at him, and winked. He noticed that the was at the front of the balcony, and was filled with an unaccustomed dread.

He turned back to the front, and felt stares like heat waves on the back of his neck. The High Priest's associates were standing behind him dressed in the slightly tattered ceremonial robes, them not being used for a while, whilst the High Priest was playing poker with his brother in the front row. He saw Nobby's nervousness and gave him a grin.

The crowd grew silent, and Hughnon threw his cards down with frustration before putting on the Official Priestly Hat, which had been redecorated with extra ribbons for the occasion. Priests, it turned out, were just as much peacocks as wizards.

He walked to the pulpit, cleared his throat. 'Ladies and gentlemen, we are here today for the coronation of Cecil Wormsborough St. John Nobbs as the King of Ankh-Morpork.'

A couple of people sniggered. Nobby looked in desperation up at Angua, who seemed to be concentrating very hard on a spot of ground just below the balcony. There was no one sitting there.

'First, we will read from the texts of Blind Io, which he has sent me this morning.' A few priests started muttering in indignation, but the High Priest haughtily ignored them. 'It says here that Io blesses the-_what the hell is that?_'

There was a crash as Angua, now in wolf form, leaped off the edge of the balcony with a frustrated looking Carrot and a gleeful looking Queen Molly being the only ones to notice her falling. She landed on four paws and howled up into the lofty ceiling of the Opera House.

The coronation erupted into mayhem.

Angua fled, and the whole Opera House tried to clamber over each other to either catch her or see what all the fuss was about. The priests were shouting, the guild leaders were arguing with each other as to what had just happened, and the High Priest was being comforted by his brother.

Tripping over his long robes and ripping the priceless silks, Nobby ran from destiny in general and axes in particular.


	22. Crumble - Otto Chriek

Otto von Chriek stared longingly through the shop window at the iconograph. The sunlight reflected off its metallic paintwork, but it was all right, Otto had remembered to put his smoked glasses on. And Mr Villiam had been so helpful in suggesting the little phial of blood.

The shop assistant came out after about half an hour to see Otto still staring at the machine with a longing expression, nearly obscured by those huge sunglasses.

'You can come in and look at it, if you want,' she offered.

Otto turned round and beamed at her. 'Can I?'

'Yeah. We let anyone have a go on it.'

His eyes narrowed. 'Anyvun? Anyvun _wizout_ an interest in iconography?'

'It might help them develop an interest in iconography.'

Otto thought about this for a minute. 'Okay. I vill have a go on it.'

As she led him through the shop, dark for the interests of the safety of the iconographs, Otto's eyes started to widen. It was quite disconcerting on the usual calm face of the vampire to see his pupils dilate to that size; they seemed to obscure his irises until he was looking out of jet black eyes.

'Here you go,' the shop assistant said. 'I'll leave you too it.'

Otto simply stared at it.

The Akina TR-10 dual imp iconograph with the telescopic seat and the big, shiny lever.

He felt himself fall in love.

When a vampire swears off the sticky stuff they switch their passion and need for that to something else. More often than not, it'll be something which can cause them harm, because it is difficult to get the same thrill from a loaf of bread*. In Otto's case, he was obsessed with light, and, true to all stereotypes, collapsed whenever the flash salamander he carried let off a beam of sunlight. It didn't stop him, though.

*At least, not for _most_ people. There are always some oddities.

As he sat down on the black leather seat and put his hand on the big shiny lever, he felt the power that he had in his hands. An iconograph held no secrets; the imps hadn't got the imagination to lie, so no one could ever say that an iconograph was false. This was its power, it could tell the _truth_.

As he relaxed into the back of the telescopic seat and put his eye to the box to check on the imps, he caught sight of a skulking figure next to some of the cheaper alternatives.

'Commander Vimes?' he called.

Vimes span round and glared at him, eyes narrowed. Finally, the internal filing system caught up with him and he pointed accusatorily at the vampire. 'You're that vampire iconographer, aren't you? From the paper.'

'Yes, zir. And, if you vouldn't mind, I have zum questionz vhich I vould be honoured if you vould anzer.'

'I'm not answering any goddamn questions,' Vimes spat. 'I can't go anywhere without one of your guys following me.'

'To be fair, zir, you do follow uz too.'

'But that's my job! I'm allowed to.'

'Zen ve're allowed to follow you too. It'z zer Freedom of zer Press.'

'What sort of freedom's that?'

Otto shrugged. 'It's freedom. Nobody ever zaid it vas nice.'

Vimes snorted and turned back to the iconographs. He picked one up, turned it around and nodded, then looked at the price on the back. He paled, and replaced it hastily.

'Oh, you don't vant zat one, commander. Zer imps are just not up to standard.'

Vimes looked at him again. 'You know zom-something about iconographs?'

'Oh, no, sir.'

'Damn.'

'I know everyzing about iconographs. You could say it vas my pazzion.' Otto walked up to the cheap iconographs and glared at a few of them. 'Zeze are not very good, commander.'

'But they're cheaper.'

'No, zeze are their cheaper range. Zey keep zer _good_ cheap vuns out ze back.'

'You've been in here before?'

'No, but I know about shops. Zey are very clever.'

Otto led him out to the darkest corner of the shop, and Vimes could dimly see the outlines of some smaller iconographs crammed into shelves. 'Now, vat vill you be uzing ze iconograph for?'

'Um, taking pictures of crime scenes. Bodies, that sort of thing.'

'So you vant a good zoom?'

'A what?'

'A good zoom. To make something bigger.'

'Yeah. I think Cheery mentioned something like that.'

'I zee, I zee. Is zat zer young lady who Villiam attacked vith zer stink bomb?'

'No. That's our Sergeant Angua. And tell him if he does that again I'll cut off his-'

'I did not think she looked very cheery. Vould it be zer dwarf voman?'

'Yes. That's her. She's our forensics expert, and the iconograph went bust last week. She's been moping around ever since.'

'Not very good, vith her name.'

'Hah. No, it's not.' Vimes held out what looked like an exploded cardboard box. 'This was her old one. She says she wants a better one this time. Something to do with detail?'

'Ah, she vants a higher rezolution. Vell, zis one may suffice.'

He held out an iconograph which looked identical in size and shape to the old one, apart from it not being in pieces. 'What's different about it?'

'Vell, you have a higher zoom and ze imp has superb eyesight. Also, ze inks are vaterproof.'

Vimes had taken it from him and was looking at it like he would a bomb. 'And it won't lie?'

'No, of course not.'

'And the imp won't say any bloody stupid things to me?'

'I doubt it.'

'I'll take it.' Vimes stuck it under one arm and threw the broken one into the bin next to him. 'Where's the till?'

'Over zer, commander.'

'Thanks, Mister Chriek. And remember to tell your William what I said about Angua, or any of our officers.'

'Are any ozers verevolves?'

'No. But the principle still applies.'

'I vill tell him.'

Otto returned to his precious iconograph, stroking the big lever and admiring the beautiful handwork on the lenses. In his mind, it seemed to glow with wonder.

Then he looked at the price. He gulped.

* * *

'Can I have vun hundred and eighty dollars for the Akina TR-10 dual-imp iconograph viz ze telescopic seat and ze big shiny lever?'

'Er…not yet.'

It was not _yet_. There was still a _yet_.

* * *

Otto ran into the Times's new premises with a grin spreading across his face.

'Mister Villiam, Mister Villiam!' he shouted.

William emerged from the back room after shutting the door to his office, where Sacharissa was laughing, hastily. 'What do you want?'

'Mister Villiam, it iz on sale!'

'What is?'

'The Akina TR-10! It's only ninety dollars!'

Sacharissa appeared behind William. 'I don't see why not. We've got the money. Might make things more efficient.'

'So I can have it?'

William shrugged. 'If you want to.'

Otto burst into tears.


	23. Range - Vetinari

**Apologies - for some reason I just forgot to include a chapter...anyway, this is the 1200 word chapter, the next one in the Glorious Revolution series will be uploaded tomorrow.**

**Enjoy :)**

* * *

When Vetinari entered the room Leonard was crouched over a table with several different coloured paint pots and a wooden circle in front of him. Vetinari visible relaxed; he'd been getting worried about the whole gonne thing.

'I see you've found another project,' he commented.

Leonard turned around and smiled tiredly at him. 'Not exactly, my lord.'

'How do you mean?'

'Well, after learning that the gonne could be construed as a weapon I decided to give it another purpose.'

'Knowing full well that whatever it's purpose is people will just persist in using it to kill people?' It had been a long day for Vetinari.

Leonard looked shocked. 'Of course not, my lord. This uses the gonne for a sport.'

Whilst Vetinari entertained thoughts about how he could use the euphemism 'sport' in jails Leonard propped the circle up against the window in the corner of the room. In the centre there was a red dot, with different shades of blue surrounding it in a wave pattern. If it had been a work of art, it would have been a masterpiece; like everything that Leonard designed it had a fascinating simplicity about it. As it was, it had some deadly beauty about it as the waves made Vetinari's head spin. Much like a moving target, he thought.

'So, what's it for?'

Leonard picked up a replacement gonne that Vetinari saw was slightly longer, thinner and more malignant than the last. Whilst the other gonne was almost an art form in its intricacy, with the decorative gilding and green shine, the dull, black metal here showed that this was obviously designed as a weapon. A weapon designed to kill rather than just ward people off.

Or it would be if it wasn't Leonard of Quirm, who dusted around spiders, who had invented it. He would doodle a design like this on the back of a beer mat for _anyone_ to see and then wonder why people were getting killed.

'You built another,' he said glumly.

'Of course, my lord. It's difficult to imagine firing the gonne without having it in front of you, and I needed to test that it worked.'

'But it's...different.'

Leonard looked proud of his weaponised baby. 'Isn't it? Completely different from the first, of course.'

'How?'

'Well, I've changed the firing mechanism so it can shoot twenty four shots in one, as I call it, _shop_-'

'Why shop?'

'I don't know. It just came to me. And I've modified its range so that it's far more accurate, as the thinner barrel ensures a more streamlined shot.'

'More accurate,' Vetinari said hollowly.

'Yes. And I've changed it so that it'll only fire wooden bullets.'

Vetinari brightened, and started to see a light at the end of the barrel, hypothetically. 'So it wouldn't be as dangerous?'

'Dangerous, my lord? It's merely being used for a sport.'

'Can I see one of the shots?'

Leonard handed over a metal pellet identical in size and shape to those which were in the old gonne, except they were lighter.

The end of the barrel was on fire.

'So you've encased the wood with metal.'

'So that it doesn't splinter with the forces on it.'

'How thoughtful,' Vetinari said sarcastically. 'That way no one will get hurt.'

'Precisely. We wouldn't want this to be an extreme sport.'

'And this sport, what do you do in it?'

'Come here.'

Apprehensively, Vetinari walked over to Leonard and took hold of the gonne. It felt heavier than a normal piece of metal should, as if the weight of the world was inside it...

Vetinari shook his head to clear his thoughts.

'Then aim it at the target.' Leonard moved Vetinari's elbow slightly so he was more in line with the red circle. 'You're aiming for the centre.'

'Like this?'

'Bit to the right.'

Vetinari pulled the trigger, and the glass window that the target was resting against exploded in a kaleidoscope of shattered crystals. The visual effects were amazing. The actual effects were...dangerous. Glass spun through the air and crashed onto the pine flooring, and was combined with the crack of the gonne that could wake the dead.

After a few moments of earth-shattering silence Vetinari managed to pick himself up until he was resting on his elbows.

'I meant to the left,' Leonard said apologetically.

Vetinari could hear the shouts as the people of the city congregated around the Palace, and sighed. 'Leonard, stay here.'

'Thank you, my lord.'

Vetinari hurried along the corridor, although made sure to step on those flagstones that it was good to step on on a Grunesday. As he pressed the wooden panelling and the door clicked open, he was faced with Drumknott's worried face.

'Sir, are you all right?'

'Of course, Drumknott. There was merely an error.'

Drumknott decided to accept the ambiguity for now. 'There's quite a big crowd, sir.'

'Excellent,' Vetinari sighed.

'And Commander Vimes wants to know what the bloody hell you're playing at. They were his words, sir, not mine.'

'Excellent.'

'He did not look happy.'

'He never looks happy, Drumknott. If you were to tell me he looked pleased I would be surprised.'

As Vetinari exited the palace and entered the street, raising his hand to his eyes to shield the worst of the sun, Commander Vimes came storming up to him, saluting gruffly.

'Yes, commander?' he asked, eyebrow raised.

'What is that bloody thing doing in my city again?'

'Your city?'

'You know what I mean!'

'Well, if you wish to confiscate it you're more than welcome.'

Vimes narrowed his eyes. 'Where is it?'

'My secretary has it.'

Drumknott, entirely confused, walked up to Vetinari and whispered something into his ear.

'I meant my other secretary, of course.' Vetinari said smoothly.

'Can _he_ give it to us?'

Vetinari walked to the window and called up to Leonard. 'When I say when, can you toss the gonne down?'

'Of course, my lord.'

'With the safety catch on, please.'

'Constable Angua, forward,' Vimes commanded. Angua walked forward apprehensively, and eyed the smiling face of Leonard with a glare.

'Why Angua?' Carrot asked, perplexed.

'Because, as proven, if it hits her it won't kill her.'

'Thank you, sir,' Angua muttered.

'That's a good idea,' Carrot said enthusiastically. Angua turned round, shot him a glare, then cautiously held her hands up.

'Alright, can you throw it down please?'

There was no gonne.

'When,' Vetinari said wearily.

The gonne span through the air, and the world was free of the crack of a bullet and Angua relaxed. 'Here, sir.'

'I'll take that,' Carrot said quickly, moving in front of Vimes. She shrugged, then handed it to him.

'I trust you'll keep it safe,' Vetinari said.

'Of course. Right, watchmen, back to base. We'll put it somewhere.'

Vetinari cleared his throat.

'All right, all right, watchpeople.'

Vetinari did it again.

'For gods' sakes!' Vimes span round and glared at him. 'Fine, The Watch.'

'Thank you, sir,' newly promoted Sergeant Detritus rumbled.

Vimes glared at him, and it was the expression of 'I will make you pay for this'.

Vetinari walked back inside the palace, smiling. He _did_ like winding the commander up.

And now to deal with Leonard.


	24. Colour - Sam Vimes, Rosie Palm, Vetinari

**I've written the next three chapters, and although this should technically be the last of the three because of its word count it fits better at the beginning. The next three will all vaguely focus on the Glorious Revolution, as I forgot to wear the lilac and have only just remembered.**

**Enjoy :) please keep reviewing/favouriting etc.**

Sam Vimes watched the body of John Keel tumble back over the barricades and down towards the ground. He heard a scream, and realised it was him after Colon grabbed his arms and held him back.

'Leave him, Vimesy,' he shouted over the noise of the melee.

'But-'

Colon span him out of the way as an arrow flew at him, missing him by a whisper. 'Forget him!' he yelled, and advanced forward.

Sam shook himself, and started climbing to the top of the barricade. He saw a man who looked like he could be an Unmentionable - he had the sadistic expression of one - and lashed out with his fist. The man fell back with a groan and collapsed, only be trampled by another ten Unmentionables.

He span round and jabbed another one with his elbow, and heard the reassuring crack. Fighting dirty. Just like Keel had told him to. That would be his legacy.

* * *

Rosemary Palm heard the fighting from the ballroom, and swept out with a haughty glance at her counterparts which was _far_ above her status.

'What's going on?' she asked Madam.

'Keel's dead.'

Rosie considered all the possibilities, and realised that she had grown to like the slimy, backstabbing bastard. 'I'm sorry to hear that.'

'Well, get back in there. Your job's even more important now.'

'What, you mean to seduce the upper classes?' she asked bitterly. 'I look forward to it.'

* * *

Havelock Vetinari emerged from the shadows after the seamstress had gone. 'What now?'

His aunt shrugged. 'Why should it change anything? You _knew_ that the Watch was a tiny detail to begin with, he made it a little bit bigger, that was all. And now he's gone, what do they matter anymore?'

* * *

The barricades were slowly dismantled over the following days.

The city returned to a state of relative calm. They mended the Watch Houses and boarded up windows and tried to salvage something, anything from the wreckage that the oxen had caused. The city, after a while, rested, controlled again by someone who had some sort of a grip on things.

The lilac was still in bloom, though someone had gone out with an axe one night and attacked the bush behind Treacle Mine Road. Sam would never tell anyone that they had beaten him to it.

Snapcase had firmly reinstated himself as the Patrician. There were already posters commemorating his brave actions in the revolution being put up around the city, and some of the Watchmen had been tearing them down.

But, apart from that, not much had changed in the city. True, the Unmentionables were gone, and the last of their instruments had finally been melted down to be made into something less painful.

Nothing had changed…

Apart from the lilac lads.

True, there was a sort of camaraderie between then which wasn't just the spine chilling terror that they had all felt after Reg Shoe, slightly grubby and a tad grey, had arrived at the Watch House and smiled brightly at them, asking if he could join. Knock had said no, of course.

Oh, and Knock was captain. It just got better.

Sam had just gotten off patrol, having switched back to the Elm Street beat after he discovered that he was too paranoid to walk down Morphic Street now. In every shadow he saw a figure, even the shadow of a tree looked like a conspirator. There probably were men in dark rooms somewhere, but they weren't his problem.

Not now.

He put his breastplate down heavily and tried to go to sleep in the corner. It didn't work. He kept seeing the falling figure of Keel, the soaring arrows and the lilac blooms, lying trampled on the floor, just like the revolution.

* * *

Rosie Palm finally managed to get rid of a particularly interesting customer after picking his pockets after he short changed her. She leaned against the door and sighed, before surveying the room.

She didn't sleep in this room, bar the odd nights when she was just too knackered to move. Her flat had three rooms; hers, Sandra's and her sewing room, as she would politely call it. It had a double bed in it which was garishly decorated in fake red velvet and plush satin pillows, with a rosy light created by some tissue paper and string over the oil lamp. By some it would be considered a fire hazard, but the city had no concept of the term.

But Rosemary Palm had plans.

She was naïve, she knew that now, to ever think that Snapcase would give them what they wanted. But that wouldn't stop her. The name 'seamstress' would no longer mean 'someone who stood around in grubby clothes at street corners with her chest stuck out', but it would be a respectable position. Yes, the job they did would never hold any respectability, but the Seamstresses would have influence over the city. It was pretty much the only profession which hired more women than men, although the Beggar's Guild had just appointed their first Queen.

They would have _power_.

Seamstresses had never had power. They had always just been in the background serving the people with power. A seamstress was vulnerable, although now that the Agony Aunts had come in they could rest a little easier in their beds*.

The Whore Pits would be renamed into the Street of Negotiable Affection. The term 'Seamstress' wouldn't be mentioned with embarrassment, just as a job description. They would be able to influence the Patrician, whoever succeeded Lord Snapcase if he wasn't just another multi-chinned idiot like all the Patricians Rosie had ever known.

Rosemary Palm had plans. And she didn't care how she got to them.

* * *

*Well, someone's bed.

* * *

Havelock Vetinari lounged on a sofa in his aunt's house, reading another copy of The Art of Concealment and sipping from a blue mug with the words 'World's Best Nephew' on it.

Beside him, the flea bitten tom cat rolled over and let out a gust of stale air. Havelock winced, and turned to his aunt.

'Madam, don't you think that the cat needs to be seen to?' _Preferably by a taxidermist_, he thought privately.

'The cat stays, Havelock.'

Havelock sighed, and returned to his book. However grateful he was to his aunt for letting him stay with her until all the unrest had blown over, he could not stand that cat. Vetinari actually quite liked cats, it was just this one that had it in for him.

_I'll get a dog,_ he thought.

'Anyway, you're leaving in a couple of weeks for Uberwald. The cat won't be coming with you.'

The Grand Sneer, it was called, where upper class boys from the city visited outer lying countries to see how inferior they were. Vetinari didn't think that anyone was really inferior to him, there were just a couple who were a little thicker, had less dress sense, but perhaps he would learn something.

Most students left when they were eighteen. Havelock, due to political pressures, had decided to go a bit earlier.

It wasn't so much that the men in black had arrived on his doorstep and said, ever so politely, that he should really leave the city or bad things would happen to him and his family and practically anyone who knew his name, it was just that he had a dreadful premonition that that could happen. Sooner or later someone would realise that it was him who had killed the Patrician and then the midden would really hit the windmill.

He was vaguely aware that the upper classes shouldn't know phrases like that, but he wasn't that concerned.

He was going in two weeks, and when he came back everything would be different. He had heard the people, and underneath it all he knew what they really wanted at the depths of their hearts was for things to go on as normal. Politics didn't matter, so they should be kept out of it.

One man, one vote.

Havelock Vetinari would be the man. He would have the vote. No one else.


	25. Fight or Flight - Sam Vimes

A young Sam Vimes stood up from behind the bar and clocked Gussie Two Grins over the head with a bottle, remembering how Keel had taught him.

Gussie collapsed on the floor, out like a light.

It had started two hours previously.

* * *

Sam was on desk duty, and was the first one to see the blood covered man who ran screaming into Treacle Mine Road.

As he ran over he shouted for Sergeant Colon, and tried to keep the man conscious by stemming the blood flow with his shirt. The man's breathing was irregular, short rattling gasps interspersed with long silences which were growing too frequent for Sam's liking.

'Who did this?' he demanded.

'Man with two grins,' the man gasped, clutching Sam's arm desperately.

'Gussie?'

Colon came running down the stairs and paled as he saw the blood soaked man lying on the floor. 'What's going on?'

'Gussie.'

'Bloody hell.'

'Colon, I need bandages.'

'No you don't, mate.'

Sam looked down at the man, who had gone still. Dead still, in fact. The lack of his short breaths filled the room.

Colon patted him on the shoulder. 'Tough luck, corp.'

Sam looked at the clock on the wall, added on an hour and six minutes, and turned back to the corpse. 'Time of death, eight fifty seven.'

Colon had respectfully placed a blanket over the man's head. 'That's all we can do.'

'Surely we should find 'im?'

'Who?'

'Gussie.'

'Nah. He'll be long gone.'

* * *

He wasn't. They had another call from someone saying that a man had been attacked at a pub in Dolly Sisters by a little man who was smiling. Sam thanked the woman, turned her away and went upstairs to Colon.

'Gussie's attacked someone else.'

'Whereabouts?'

'Dolly Sisters.'

Colon looked uneasy. 'Look, Sam-'

'Corporal.'

'I don't 'ave the authority for this. I mean, I've only just been promoted.'

'Then find someone who does!'

'Might be difficult. Now Rust's gone I'm not sure who's in charge.' He brightened up slightly. 'You could try Knock though.'

Sam's face darkened. 'Yeah, right.'

Colon shushed him frantically. 'Y'don't know who could be list'nin. Keep it quiet.'

Sam remembered Keel, remembered his hatred of Knock but also to keep your mouth shut and your face blank and...

'I'll go and ask him.'

Colon, a man not really at home with responsibility yet, looked relieved. 'See what he says. I'll get a few men together just in case.'

* * *

Sam walked dejectedly up the stairs of Treacle Mine Road Night Watch House, hating himself and Knock and authority in general. They could all go to hell, as far as he was concerned.

If he was captain he'd demote some of the more stolid sergeants*, replace them with some younger men and those who knew the city inside out; he wouldn't recruit anyone who'd been in the military; he'd reorganise the watch houses so that there were more in the central city...he'd change a lot of things, really.

Abolishing the thoughts from his head and keeping his face blank, he approached Knock's door. 'Captain?' he called as he knocked.

'Yes, corporal?'

Sam entered and glanced around the spartan room; there wasn't a scrap of paperwork anyway. He didn't like paperwork, but didn't trust anyone who thought that the world could be run without it. Paperwork at least showed that something was being done and that it wasn't secret - you could track paperwork. That was why the Unmentionables had hated it, Keel had said.

'There's been a man attacking civilians in bars around the city. Two so far, though we know there'll be more.'

'What style of attack?'

'Whatever he can get his hands on, sir.' Gussie wasn't choosy; he'd gladly seize a dagger if there was one helpfully lying on a table, but if not a chair would suffice. Or even a tablecloth. Sam had heard rumours of his strangling someone with a napkin up at Nap Hill, but had refused to believe it.

'Where were these attacks?'

'One near Treacle Street, the other in Dolly Sisters. We think he's working round the city.'

'Or he could be staying in one area.'

'That's not his style, sir.'

'Either way, it's out of our jurisdiction, corporal.' Sam opened his mouth to protest but was silenced with Knock's raised hand. 'No. You know the rules.'

'We're the City Watch, sir.'

'We are Treacle Mine Road. We deal with stuff here, the other watch houses can deal with this man. What did you say his name was?'

'But no one's doing anything about it!'

'Corporal, his name.'

'Someone else's going to get hurt!'

'Oh, shut up. It's not our problem, so stuff it. We'll deal with it if, and only if, it affects us. Are you clear on this?'

Sam bit his tongue in an effort to stop the words coming out. 'Yes, captain.'

'You'll be doing nothing to this man.'

'Yes, captain.'

'Off you go. I'm sure there's reports that need writing.'

Sam walked out of the door, back straight and shoulders stiff until the door slammed behind him. Then he punched the wall, heard Knock's chair skitter back with some satisfaction and felt himself calm down slightly.

He walked down the stairs and was faced with the slightly perspiring Sergeant Colon. 'What's happening?'

'Knock said no.'

Colon recognised the little glint in the corporal's eye. It proclaimed to the world: _damned be the lot of 'em_.

'So we're going then, corp?'

Sam regarded the men, most of them wet-behind-the-ears lance-constables who were quaking in fear. 'Yep. Any of you lot ever followed someone?'

A little voice piped up from the back of the crowd. 'I 'ave, sir.'

'Who said that?'

The tiny urchin, who was _slightly_ bigger after nearly two years of decent meals, sidled to the front of the crowd. 'Me, sir. Nobby.'

Sam reeled slightly when he realised that Nobby Nobbs was in the Watch, and hadn't just crept off after…after that. 'You know Gussie?'

'Won't be too hard to find 'im.'

'Right. I want you to find him and come back in ten minutes to tell me where he is.'

Nobby scurried off.

'This is technically illegal,' Sam told the assembled me, 'but what he's doing is illegal, so it's not too bad. We're going to wait 'til Nobby comes back, then we'll all go plain clothes and hide out in the bars around the area. Whoever's in the bar he's in'll nick him.'

A tentative lance-constable raised a hand.

'Yes?'

'But he'll fight with anyfing, corp.'

Sam considered it. 'You'll go out in threes. There can't be that many pubs around.'

The group nodded and Colon gestured to Sam to follow him. He ducked into a corner, supposedly secretively, and pulled Sam closer. 'What're you doing, lad?'

'What I'm supposed to.'

'That ain't what Knock's told you to do.'

'No, sarge, but Knock's a bleedin' idiot, no offence meant. I'm not going to take orders from him.'

Colon was wringing his hands together in worry. 'Look, well, it's not supposed to be you taking charge. Supposed to be me.'

'How about we say it was you all along?' Sam said, eyebrows raised. Colon's usual cheerful disposition was replaced with a mask of glazed, terrified panic.

'Nah, I think you can keep goin',' he said weakly.

'Good.' Sam stood out of the corner and nodded to the men. 'Let's get on with it, then. Nobby's back.'

* * *

*Which just shows how much opinions change in thirty years and several gallons of whiskey.

* * *

**Reviews would be great, as I've never written a young Vimes and found the tone really difficult, so let me know you opinions :)**


	26. Acid - Sam Vimes

**The final chapter of the three Glorious Revolution chapters**

Sam and the rest of the men, followed by an extremely sweaty and red faced Sergeant Colon, who was considering his immortal soul and the fact that he really needed to lose a bit of weight, were hurrying up Esoteric Street towards where Gussie had just been seen. Nobby had reported another attack in Dolly Sisters, but he had already moved on around by the time Nobby had arrived back.

He seemed to be sticking fairly close to the city walls, probably to avoid the Watch. Gussie wasn't a stupid man, in fact he was more intelligent than many of his murderous counterparts, he was just very clear about who he did and did not like.

He didn't like many people.

As the plain-clothes Watch arrived they realised that they didn't need their original plan of hiding behind barstools to see where Gussie was. It was quite clear from the screams and crashes in one of the pubs that Gussie had arrived, and clear from the carnage around them exactly how he had arrived there.

Several people who recognised the Watch nodded towards the pub, like they needed any help noticing. There were a few men and women scattered haphazardly in a straight line with bruises starting to bloom or blood dripping from cuts to legs and arms, and they were all keeping together in one group as far away from the pub without not being able to see what was going on. But that was this city for you: even when injured they can't resist a spectacle.

Sam nodded to a few of the men to go round the back door and was surprised when they automatically obeyed him. He sent Colon with them, just to make sure that there was a bit of order. The rest of the men went to the front windows and peered in hesitantly.

Gussie Two Grins was sitting peacefully at the bar, where the rest of the occupants were trying to avoid his gaze and failing miserable. Whenever one of them looked at him for more than a second he would turn round and smile, revealing yellowing teeth and an expression that said very clearly: don't move, or it will end badly for you. It was a smile that the young Sam Vimes had seen far too many times in his fairly new career, but it always made his heart sink.

A man like Gussie wouldn't hesitate to gut you with a broken bottle, he wouldn't hesitate to stab you with a kitchen fork or hit you with a window frame. A man like him would use anything as a weapon, absolutely anything as long as it meant that the other person collapsed in a heap on the floor.

Sam glanced at his men, who were staring, terrified, through the window. 'Alright, lads?' he asked kindly.

They nodded, but hesitantly.

Sam caught Colon's eye, and nodded once.

The door slammed open.

'THIS IS THE WATCH!' he screamed as loudly as he could, his heart in his mouth and his sword nearly slipping out of his fingers. Gussie simply turned round and smiled.

'I was wond'rin' when you'd get here,' he said conversationally. Colon noticed him reach a hand behind him and shook his head ever so slightly.

'You're under arrest, Gussie,' he said, moving closer, 'for three, possibly more murders today.'

'Where's your proof?'

'Witness statements. Their bodies.'

Gussie merely smiled faintly, and Vimes noticed how the faint outline of the muscles in his arm showed that he was gripping something behind his back.

'What you gonna do about it, Mister Policeman?' he whispered.

Sam stepped forward and ducked as Gussie wheeled a chair up over his head and flung it towards the boy. A couple of the lance constables reached forward to grab him, but Gussie was already up, holding a bottle in each hand and a knife between his teeth. 'Really, boys?' he asked, his voice muffled.

Sam stepped forward, and Colon moved behind Gussie. 'Come on.'

Gussie flung his arm backwards and smashed the bottle on the windowsill, right next to where Colon stood, and the sergeant yelled as the flying pieces of glass punctured his skin. He still managed to get a decent punch into Gussie's back, but this just prompted Gussie to elbow him in the stomach and spin back to Sam, who had raised his sword and was bringing it down…

And then Gussie managed to actually grab hold of the sword and pull Sam over until he was face to face with that evil grin, but Gussie wasn't grinning now. 'You think you're so clever, Policeman Boy?' he hissed.

In answer, Sam elbowed him in the stomach and rolled away before Gussie slammed the bottle onto the floor. Through the fountain of splinters he could see Gussie advancing on one of the lance-constables and managed to get to his feet, wincing at the bruises which were blooming where he had hit the floor. He lifted out his truncheon, but not before Gussie had grabbed a shard of glass from the window and was slashing at the lance-constable's arm, causing droplets of blood to litter the floor.

Then the sinister smile was turning on him and wrenching the truncheon out of his hands, so Sam lashed out and caught him on the bridge of the nose. He then picked up the bottle that he was holding and smashed it into the man's skull, wincing as he heard a crack.

Gussie fell to the floor, but not before hitting Sam on the leg with his own truncheon. Sam fell down and grabbed Gussie's throat with one hand and his knife arm with the other and tightening his grip until he could feel every sinew in the man's wiry neck and just wanted to keep squeezing…

'He's dead, Sam,' Colon said, lifting him off the now still body. 'I reckon it was the glass.'

Sam stood above the body, panting and staring down at the splayed corpse on the floor. He glanced up at the clock. 'Put it down to self-inflicted injuries whilst resisting arrest.'

'Right you are, corporal,' Colon said, wearing a queer waxy grin. 'Self-inflicted.'

'And now,' Sam said, walking away and making an effort not to limp, 'I need someone to see to my hand.'

* * *

Sam stared straight ahead to a point about six inches above Knock's shoulder as the man droned on.

_Disgrace to the city…going against my orders…what would your men think…going against the rest of the Watch…demoted…_

Sam's head snapped back to staring at Knock. 'What?'

'Well, I can't let disobedience go unpunished, _constable,'_ Knock said uncomfortably, riffling through his paper, most of which Sam had written and knew that Knock knew this.

'But I'm a _good_ corporal!'

'I'm sure you are, Sam. Your organisation is impeccable, you understand the concept of punctuation and 'i before e', but I cannot let this slide.'

'I saved gods know how many people!'

'But you disobeyed my orders, Vimes. You are demoted to constable, there will be no arguments.'

Sam bit his tongue again. 'Yes, sir.'

'But good work.'

He span around on his foot and glared at Knock, who calmly raised his eyebrows, as if challenging him. Sam turned back around and walked out, slamming the door.

* * *

That night saw Sam in the Mended Drum, nursing a beer whilst the chaos of the night went on around him. He didn't feel a thing.

There comes a certain point on the quest to insobriety where all the senses are dulled whilst the mind races, though usually the thoughts were something along the lines of 'How did I get here?' and 'Who am I, anyway' rather than sensible thoughts like 'I should really put the bottle down now'.

Sam had reached this point. He wasn't going back.


	27. Give - Duck Man

**This is one of those chapters where it's a good idea not to ask me what's going on in my head...**

**So, here it is. The story of how Duck Man became the Duck Man. Based on the poem 'Give' by Simon Armitage**

**Enjoy :)**

* * *

**Give - Simon Armitage**

_**Of all the public places, dear**_  
_**to make a scene, I've chosen here.**_

_**Of all the doorways in the world**_  
_**to choose to sleep, I've chosen yours.**_  
_**I'm on the street, under the stars.**_

_**For coppers I can dance or sing.**_  
_**For silver-swallow swords, eat fire.**_  
_**For gold-escape from locks and chains.**_

_**It's not as if I'm holding out**_  
_**for frankincense or myrrh, just change.**_

_**You give me tea. That's big of you.**_  
_**I'm on my knees. I beg of you.**_

* * *

He stood outside the huge, ornate window and hammered on it with all his might.

'Elise!' he screamed.

The curtains shut, and he was faced with the sight of their heavy, golden fabric instead of the one person he wanted, no, _needed_ to see.

There was a whistle and he looked up to see someone silhouetted against the window. Was it her? No, this figure was too small, too skinny to be Elise, but as she lifted up the window he could see the similarities between the two girls.

'Elise isn't allowed out,' the girl whispered. 'Who are you?'

'I'm…' he paused. 'I'm just someone who needs to see her.'

'Who?'

'Look, she'll know who it is. Can you just go and get her?'

The girl shook her head, and her blonde curls bobbed. She must have been eleven or twelve, but young enough to know that this was an adventure, that this was what happened in stories. The gallant knight, who had to be from a rival family, came to the window of the girl trapped by her father who had been sending out tiny notes from her window to whoever may catch them. However, what the stories fail to recognise is that sometimes the window is on the opposite side to the road.

'Can you help me up?'

The girl considered it, her head tilted to one side in a way that was remarkably reminiscent of Elise. 'I can try,' she offered.

'Tie together some blankets?' He wasn't particularly practiced in the art of escapement, his father usually being too drunk to notice what he was doing or where he was going, so simply walking out of the front door usually sufficed.

'There's a drainpipe. You could see if you can climb up that.'

He looked apprehensively at the drainpipe, which contained a significant lack of footholds. 'I'll have a go.'

'You do love her, don't you.' His head snapped up to glare at the girl, but he saw nothing less than an innocent interest in his affairs.

'I guess so,' he murmered. 'Can you hold my bag?'

'Throw it up.'

He did so, along with his coat, and grasped hold of the drainpipe. It creaked ominously, but with a few jumps he was able to get a foothold and started to pull himself up the iron cylinder.

His arms screaming and his head reeling from the vertigo, he managed to get until he was just above the upstairs window and the girl threw a knotted blanket down to him.

'You're supposed to keep hold of the blanket!' he gasped.

'Oh. Sorry.'

He stood gingerly on the top of the window ledge and caught his breath for a minute. The girl looked down calmly at him.

'I reckon if you jump you could grab the window sill.'

'And what if I don't reach the window sill?'

She shrugged. 'I don't know. Splat, I suppose. But what have you got to lose?'

'My life. My leg?'

'For love, why does it matter?' the girl said wisely. He shook his head in confusion, and readied himself to jump. Suddenly, he was gripped with an urge to look down, and did so.

Surprisingly, he didn't faint. He felt like it as soon as he saw the gravel beneath him and saw just how far it would be to fall, and he then imagined the wind rushing through his hair and the crash he would make if he landed on the sharp stones, not to mention the shout that Lord Venturi would make.

He turned back to the girl, panting. 'If I fall, will you pretend you never knew me?'

The teenager gave him a look that, even though it was about five hundred years too early and on a world shaped like a disc, could only be described as 'Duh?'

'I'll take that as a yes,' he muttered, trying to reach up to see if he could grab hold of the window sill with his hand. His fingers brushed the paintwork, but if he stood on tiptoes on the narrow ledge which felt even narrower now, he could just curl his fingers around it.

He hopped slightly, and managed to get a firmer handhold. Gradually, ignoring the protests from his arms, he pulled himself up inch by inch until he was able to tumble into the girl's room.

She stood over him, not looking impressed. 'That wasn't very elegant.'

'It wasn't designed to be. Do you want to have a go?'

'I don't think so.'

Feeling incredibly ungainly standing next to the tiny girl who had her eyebrows raised and her hands on her hips, he managed to stand up,

'Hey, I know you. You're the nutcase's grandson.'

'Who?'

'That's what my father calls him when he ever comes back from a party.'

'Well, you should hear what my grandfather says about your father. Not fit to-'

'What the _hell_ are you doing here?'

He span round to face Elise, who was bright red with embarrassment. 'I came to see you.'

'Why?'

'What?'

'Why bother? Seriously, it was a fling. Nothing else to it.'

He simply stared at Elise, his love, his darling, his _fling_?

He had dreamt about her ever since their dance at Lord Rust's six months ago. She had been dressed in a floaty pink frock which was being glared at by several of the girls and stared at by several of the boys, who she coquettishly glanced out every so on. And then she had glanced at him, and his heart had leapt into his throat as she left the other man she was dancing with and tripped over to him, taking his hand and leading him to the centre of the room.

As dances do, this led to more than just dancing. Though it was more than dancing between the heirs to the two biggest rival families this side of the Ramtops, which would have caused them problems had it not been for Elise's incredible discretion, almost like she had practiced all this before, just for _him_.

And then, one day, she had just disappeared, seemingly off the rim of the Disc. So, as the gallant knight does, he had come to find her, and had been faced with this.

He looked around the room distractedly, looking for a way out. 'Look, I should go. There's obviously been a misunderstanding.'

'You do that,' she replied condescendingly.

'Elise, didn't you love me at all?' he asked desperately.

She glanced at him, and snorted. 'Love? You are a wimp, Selachii. You seriously thought that this meant anything to me?'

'I thought…' He didn't know what he thought.

'Oh, and how's your brother?' she asked, a slight grin touching the corners of her mouth. 'Now there's a boy who knows how to-'

She was cut off suddenly by an angry thundering coming from the stairs. Elise pushed him backwards until he was nearly out of the window, and span round as her father slammed the door open and stared at her.

'Another one?' he shouted as he moved towards her. 'And who's the poor bugger now?'

Elise was flung to one side by her father and he stared up into the bloodshot eyes of Lord Venturi, feeling very conscious of his Selachii nose.

'You?' the man spat, his hand on the boy's bony chest. 'I would have expected _anyone_, but not you!'

'Sir, I'm sorry, but-'

'Oh, stop with the excuses. You wanted to defeat me from the inside, eh? Get to me through exploiting my daughter?'

He looked incredulously at Elise, who was doing a very good job of pretending that he didn't exist. 'No, I-'

'I am _sick_ of your family!' Venturi shouted, pushing against his ribs so hard that he was forced to duck underneath the window frame.

All of a sudden, he felt himself lose his footing for a second, but it was enough.

His body tipped out of the window, with his foot connecting with the Lord's purple nose on its way, and he slid down the brickwork until he lay collapsed on the floor, the gravel biting into his threadbare clothes and a pain spreading through his body as it contorted itself.

He passed out, but not before hearing Venturi scream, 'Good riddance!' to the world.

After a while, a duckling climbed under his hat. He was in too much pain to notice.


	28. Needle - Ponder Stibbons

From outside the stones, the grass inside the ring seemed...well, grass like. It was just grass, no different to any of the other blades on the hilltop.

To the slightly more noticeable eye the grass maybe looked a little longer, a little more luscious than the grass outside, but they would laugh it off and suggest that the druids or the elves took good care of their lawns. There were many myths surrounding the standing stones, but people didn't believe them. They were stories, they said, stories for children to deter them from venturing inside.

They never asked why parents didn't want their children to go inside the stones.

You heard stories, of course. Stories of a magical land carpeted in snow, of elves and fairies and unicorns. There were people who had convinced themselves that the circle of stones was magic, thinking that normal people wouldn't bother dragging a load of stones into a ring without a heck of a lot of money...

These people, the logical ones, are never believed.

But whatever the means, the stones had arrived there and had always been there. People didn't go there not because of the magical aura up there, which was mostly down to the wind which can create odd patterns in the scenery, but because it was high up in the hills through a load of woodland, and to be honest, who could be bothered?

To the trained eye, there was a difference between the grass inside and the grass outside. They would have said that the grass inside looked like the perfect grass, without any of that pesky moss or dents created by people walking on it or even a decent dandelion. And when there were thousands of the hard wearing bursts of yellow scattered around the stones, why weren't there any inside?

Those who were practical and, to be quite honest, had better things to be worrying about than a ring of creepy stones, said it was because of the wind patterns.

Those who made it their job to figure out things like this might use those funny little triangles you get in geometry sets that nobody ever uses to determine that the grass should have dandelions in it, but then shrug and say 'Who knows?'

And the witches know the real reason. But they're not about to tell anyone else.

* * *

Ponder Stibbons held a needle up to the stones and let it fall. It seemed to be caught by the stone and stood upright on it, vibrating furiously.

He was one of those men who was trained to notice odd things, like how the expression on the Bursar's face could tell you exactly how many dried frog pills that he had consumed, and the stones were…odd. The air seemed to be warped around them, as if they were stretching and pulling at the molecules. But that was ridiculous - you couldn't stretch _air_ - so he put it out of his mind, being the practical sort.

'Oi! You!'

The cry echoed around the hills and Ponder jumped, startled out of science. 'Yes?' he quavered, squinting into the distance where a figure was clambering up the hill. And that was another thing: there was no fog inside the stones, the grass was permanently lit up from some sort of internal sun.

Eventually the figure transformed itself into the shape of an angry Mistress Weatherwax. 'What are you doing?'

Ponder hesitated. What _was_ he doing? Investigating this weird sort of magic which caused some objects to be attracted by stone, but only these stones, as if they had amassed some sort of power.

Meanwhile, Esme Weatherwax had reached the stones and was glaring at the needle. 'What is it with these stones and metal?'

'Not all metal. Just anything containing iron or cobalt or nickel.'

'Iron?'

'Yes.'

She pointed to the needle. 'That ain't iron, though. It's shiny.'

'It's made of steel. That's like...iron mixed with other metals.'

Esme glared at the needle; she had picked it off the stone and was turning it around. 'Doesn't look like it's mixed with anything. It's not got any lines in it.'

'No, the molecules are mixed-'

'The molly what?'

'Little bits inside the metal,' Ponder translated, dealing with the uneducated in physics quite regularly. Especially where he worked.

'I can't see them.'

'No, they're too small to see.'

'I've got good eyes.'

'They're very, very small.'

Esme chucked the needle at the stone until it stuck. 'So why does it do that?'

'I don't know yet. That's why I'm here.'

'Strange,' Esme mused, as she plinked the needle. 'You hear a heck of a lot of stories 'bout these stones, but you never hear about their weird thing with iron. Do they contain it, d'you think?'

'They might contain a different sort of iron.'

'Iron's iron.'

'I don't think so,' Ponder said uncertainly.

'How can you get different forms of iron? Those molly cull things are all the same inside iron, same with any elliement.'

Ponder took a few moments translating this into 'scientifically literate' and nodded. 'But some of the molecules are aligned differently.'

'Huh?'

He shrugged. 'I don't really know. I'm just guessing.'

Esme lowered her head and glared into the gap between two of the stones. 'Look there, magic man,' she said, pointing to the air inside the stones. 'See anything different?'

'It looks…warped. Look, you can see creases in it. But it's air.'

'And air can't have creases? Everything can crease if there's that amount of magic.'

'Why should there be magic here?'

'You tell me, Mister Wizard.'

Ponder thought about it for a moment. 'The stones have something inside them. Something bigger, and that's why it's distorting the air.'

Esme nodded grudgingly. 'And you've never thought about going into the stones?'

'No. Well, yes, but…'

'But you don't go into special stones put in a ring. You know,' she mused, 'sometimes stories do have their uses.'

'But they're just stories!'

'Everything's just stories, Mister Wizard. Look at Magrat and Verence; the king's son was taken away at birth and arrived back by accident, defeating the evil tyrant in the process. It's all…arranged.'

'You believe in fate?'

'No. I believe in stories.'

'What's the difference?'

'Fate says there's something up there makin' all our destinies up for us, which I don't like. Humans should be able to change their own future. Stories says there's human influence, which there is. Humans make up patterns and somehow, don't ask me how, everything has to adapt.'

Somehow Ponder thought it wasn't a good idea to talk to this woman about religion.

'You ever heard of the saying 'God's play games with the fates of men'?' she asked.

'Yes.'

'I don't like it,' she said firmly. 'There might be gods up there, I've seen a few in my time, but I ain't ever seen one trying to change us. No, we change our fates, then blame someone else when it all goes to pot.'

'Some people would say that we need gods. We need stories.'

'Oh, they need them just to pass the responsibility on. But somehow, here, words have power. And not the ordinary changin' people's minds thing, they contain power.' She sniffed. 'Must be all that bloody magic around.'

'But you're a witch!'

'Don't mean I like your magic. Wizards go around screwing with the world, witches go around stopping people screwing up the world. Big difference.'

Ponder could only nod, hoping that she didn't know that in trying to split the thaum he had created a whole new world. But it was true - wizards were _supposed_ to tinker with the workings of the world. The world was run by magic, wizards used magic, it was only logical.

They were also supposed to, by law, eat four meat meals a day. Ponder presumed it was to keep them occupied whilst other people did the real world.

Mistress Weatherwax was staring at the needle again. 'So what if this needle, which you have told me is made of iron even though its shiny, was put next to another stone?'

'Doesn't work. It has to be these.'

Esme reached into one of her everlasting pockets and pulled out a stone with a needle attached to it. 'What about this one?'

'Where did you get that from?'

'Chipped it off these years ago. It does the same thing.'

'Why did you chip it off?'

'Well, someone else chipped it off for me and gave it to me. It was interesting though, because this bit's small, but that bit's a lot bigger, but the needle still sticks.'

Ponder shrugged. 'I don't know.'

'Well, you might find out some day. Keep looking, though.'


	29. Locks - Polly Perks, Cheery, Susan

'Mal,' Polly called out of the tent. Then, when the vampire refused to respond, 'MAL!'

A dishevelled but still glamorous Corporal Maladicta came to the door of the tent and glared inside. 'I was asleep.'

'Why?'

'Because I was tired. Why else would I be asleep?'

'Oh, I don't know. Maybe because you spent the whole of last night out with Sally and Otto and didn't return until an hour ago when you proceeded to throw up out of the back window. I'm not deaf, you know.'

Mal shrugged. 'Sometimes vampires need to let their hair down.'

Polly shuddered at the thought of Mal letting her hair down, preferring not to remember the last time that _that_ happened, but decided not to comment. 'Anyway, corporal, I need you to do my hair.'

'Your what?'

'My hair, Mal. I've got this goddamn ball this evening which I have to go to as part of the whole diplomacy thing which I didn't sign up for but ended up with anywhere and _my hair is a mess_. And all the nobles will be there and I don't want to show them Borogravia doesn't know how to use a comb.'

The vampire shrugged. 'Your hair's always a mess, Polly.'

'You're making it worse.'

'Sorry, sorry. What do you want me to do to it?'

'I don't know. Make it look nice, for once?'

Mal came round behind her and picked up her thick hair, which was just starting to grow again. 'You've got nice hair,' she said pragmatically, running her fingers through it. 'We could put some layers in it, give it a bit of volume…'

'Since when did you become a hairdresser?'

'I have many undiscovered talents,' Mal replied calmly, which made Polly's ears flame red. 'Of course, we could try to curl it…'

Polly drifted off for a bit in the drone of Mal talking about hair…Mal, hair? The two didn't really seem to go together, but Polly knew better than to discuss her corporal's private life.

Suddenly, she snapped back into focus. 'You are not dying my hair.'

'Aw, come on.'

'No, Maladicta. Not dying it.'

'But it'd look so lovely!'

'No. I like it blonde, so it's staying blonde.' _Plus, not many boys have blonde hair._

'I'll do whatever you want,' Mal whispered against her neck, and it was a hard offer to refuse. But there were some lines that Polly wouldn't cross, and dying her hair was one of them. Yes, it was an Abomination Unto Nuggan, but it was more that her blonde half-ringlets were the only thing that really marked her as a girl rather than simply a sergeant.

'No, Mal. Not dying it.'

Mal huffed and picked up a pair of scissors angrily. Polly would have been worried if she hadn't have known that Maladicta really, really liked her hair and that, as her sergeant, Polly could order to have her tortured.

'It would look so much better brown,' the vampire muttered, gently trimming Polly's hair.

* * *

Cheery Littlebottom looked enviously through to the locker room, where Angua was brushing her hair to get rid of the unavoidable clumps after she had Changed. It flowed like a blonde wave down her back as she tugged at the last knot and winced.

Cheery had often been complimented on the silkiness of her beard. She had curled it once and all the dwarf women had wanted to try it, it was like the lipstick all over again, but for some reason a silky beard just didn't feel feminine enough. Whereas Angua's blonde hair was undoubtedly female, as shown by Carrot walking up to her and gently kissing her on the cheek.

Cheery sighed. It wasn't as if she had a thing for Angua, if she had even known that there was such a concept, but she would just like to be more girly.

Angua put the hairbrush back in her locker and slammed the door whilst the hinges complained. 'You alright, Cheery?'

'Angua, could I talk to you for a minute?'

Angua narrowed her eyes and leaned against the lockers. 'Sure. What about?'

Cheery took a deep breath. 'I think I want to shave off my beard.'

Angua's eyes widened in horror. 'Hang on, you do know what a beard means to dwarfs, yes?'

'I _am_ a dwarf.'

'And you want to shave it off?'

'Yes.'

'Alright. I've got one more question. _Why_?'

Cheery paused, and thought of all the options. Finally, she settled for one. 'It's not really feminine, is it?'

'It's dwarfish, isn't it? It's pretty much the definition of being a dwarf, having a beard and drinking a lot. So why do you want to shave it off?'

'Because I want to be a girl!'

Angua considered this statement. 'But you are a girl.'

'But I want to be more gir_ly_. And girls don't usually have beards.'

'That is true. But I presume you're talking about humans, yes? Because dwarfs are a bit different.'

Cheery sighed. 'I just want to be like any other female.'

'Look, you've got the lipstick and we've successfully weaned you off the mascara, but I really don't think you should get rid of the beard. You wouldn't be…you.'

She glanced at Carrot, who was trying to stand discretely in the corner of the room. 'I just want what you've got.'

Angua followed her gaze. 'Oh.'

'Yep.'

'Well, you've had a few dates, haven't you? What happened there?'

'Oh, they were all jerks.'

Angua found herself nodding sympathetically, and stopped herself. 'What about that new dwarf recruit? You've been looking at him quite a bit.'

_You are good_, Cheery thought. 'I guess…'

'Look, what's the harm in trying? I can drop some hints, do my best, and why don't you see what happens? Because you know you'll never get a date without a beard*.'

*A statement never seen in beauty magazines.

'Alright. Thanks.'

'That's fine.' Angua smiled at her, trying not to show too many teeth. 'But no shaving the beard off.'

* * *

Susan Sto Helit angrily stormed out of the door and tried to straighten her dress before she stalked down the street.

It turned out the hair was _not_ good during foreplay.

Where the hell had hair which automatically rearranged itself come from? She shared some genes with her mother, such as the fondness for chocolate which didn't contain nougat, some with her father and far too many with her adopted grandfather, however that worked. However, she was certain that their hair hadn't started to curl whilst they were kissing someone.

Bloody, bloody genetics.

She finally reached the flat, slammed the door shut and slumped down at the table, slinging her handbag into the corner of the room. She put her head in her hands, and closed her eyes.

He had been an Assassin, for gods' sakes. He should be used to odd things happening, and almost certainly knew her grandfather. That was not something she wanted to discuss with any relation of hers.

You heard about all sorts of things happening on first dates. One of the people didn't show up, though unlikely with an Assassin - they had a reputation to keep to, after all. Or something awkward happened on the doorstep, with one person leaning in whilst the other fell down the stairs or something similar, but on this occasion they had both been very definite about what they wanted. But no, in her case her hair started changing from its usual dandelion shape into very long, very luscious locks of white hair underneath his hands. It was enough to put anyone off.

So she had grabbed her bags and run. It wouldn't be the first or the last time that she had done that.

She had expected the rat or the raven to be more of a problem on dates than her hair, but they had been quite quiet lately. Probably leaving her alone after the disaster with Lobsang…

She shook her head to get rid of that thought. It hadn't worked, it wasn't going to work, she should just leave it at that. But he was the only date she'd ever had who hadn't fussed when her hair started to rearrange itself.

Dismally, after pouring herself a far too large glass of wine, she walked into her bedroom and sighed as she sat down on the bed. She gulped half the wine down and set it on her dresser, glaring at her hair in the mirror across the room.

_Never mind,_ she told herself. _There are plenty more fish in the sea._

_Fish which will gladly go out with a girl whose hair keeps moving around their hands?_

_Well, some men have funny tastes._

_Do you _want_ to go out with a man with funny tastes?_

Susan reminded herself that she had to stop having conversations with herself in her head. It wasn't healthy, and stopped her having some semblance of a social life.

_Keep that up and you'll forget what a doorknob's for, _she thought.


	30. Slope - Vetinari and Margolotta

Vetinari stood apprehensively at the top of the snow covered mountain and watched Margolotta trudge through the white powder which was fountaining up and catching on her hair.

He had had his suspicions ever since a message came through the clacks that Lady Margolotta von Uberwald requested his presence for a visit - rather ambiguously it never said why she wanted him to visit, but that was just Margolotta's way - and that he should bring boots and a warm coat. It was cold in Uberwald, of course, but she had never told him to bring layers before. To be honest, on most of their visits layers were merely a hindrance.

Vetinari had heard about women of a certain age, though, and presumed that with it came a compulsive need to mother people. Look at Lady Sybil; he had never seen Commander Vimes looking so clean or well fed.

'When I was invited for a diplomatic visit I wasn't expecting this,' he called down to her.

'Oh, shut up, Havelock,' she said, blowing a bit of hair, dense with crystals, out of her mouth. She managed to reach the precipice and wiped her forehead with a woollen sleeve, intricately embroidered with bats.

They stood on what felt like the top of the world and looked down.

Far below them, Bonk glittered like a cartoon town with its bright colours and quaint little houses. Plumes of smoke drifted out of chimneys and created a mirage over the snow covered roofs, although some of the more enterprising families and those with the weakest roofs were trying to coax the snow down with broomsticks. Campfires were being lit in the centre of the town for people who couldn't afford the warmth, and the Bonk Watch was distributing food.

Nearly next door, they could see tiny dots streaming out of the Baron's mansion as the doggies left for the hunt, but Margolotta noticed a lack of two distinctive blonde shapes, one next to the leader of the pack, one accustomed to trailing at the back.

'How is Delphine?' she asked nonchalantly, knowing that he had seen the pack as well. Their black and brown stream was spreading over the pure white snow.

'Sergeant Angua? She's doing well, according to the commander. She's still in a relationship with Captain Carrot, which is what you're really asking.'

'I am simply interested in her vellbeing. And, like all vomen, I'm nosy.'

'Goes without saying,' Vetinari commented. 'No, they seem to be happy, from what I have heard. Vimes has offered her a promotion, but she turned it down.

'Vhy?'

'Only she knows that. But sergeant is a useful rank to some people and she's good at her job, he says. Also, from what I can see people tend to obey her.'

'Others have to have all the pover.'

He smirked. 'As you would well know. Now, what are we doing up in the mountains?'

'Vot vould you like to be doing in the mountains?'

'Margolotta...'

'Fine.' She walked over to the tiny log cabin and disappeared inside, reappearing with four flat, thin pieces of wood and four poles, which she threw down in front of him.

'Den building?' he asked, raising an eyebrow. He had done a great many things with Margolotta, few of them diplomatic in the usual sense, but this was taking it a little far.

'No. This is a sport. You attach those to your feet,' she said, pointing at the straps attached to the flat bits of wood, 'and propel yourself down the hill with the sticks.'

'And this is a sport?'

'It is becoming qvite popular in the town. The adrenaline rush is very attractive to some people.'

Vetinari looked down the mountain. It looked fairly steep from up here, and he gulped. 'And when we get down?'

'Ve valk up the hill again. Then ve go back down.'

'And people do this for fun?'

'You'll see, Havelock,' she said, winking. 'Now, just follow me.'

She strapped her feet, which were encased in hardwearing leather boots with a bat pattern on them, onto the pieces of wood, and Vetinari did the same. 'Does this sport have a name?'

'Ve call it 'Soaring'.'

'Soaring?'

'Yes, Havelock. You'll see.

She stood on the precipice and stuck the poles into the snow. 'Push yourself down the mountain vith these, and you stop by turning your feet so you are pointing back up the hill. Though I doubt you'll vant to stop.'

'You do realise that I'm the leader of the largest city on the Disk?'

'Yet you haven't...vot is it, parroted out?'

'Chickened out.'

'Silly Morporkian idioms,' she muttered. 'You haven't chickened out yet, though. And if you were so concerned about your town when you were away you wouldn't have started to climb up the mountain.'

'Maybe this is a little bit of diplomatic competition.'

'Maybe it's just competition.' She pushed back with her arms and, after a few more stabs into the powdery snow, managed to get some momentum and flew out of sight.

'See you at the bottom!' she called, and he could sense her grin.

Sighing, he walked awkwardly over to the start of the slope and learnt something new.

Havelock Vetinari was scared of heights.

He had never really been high up enough to know the gut wrenching fear and dizziness which strikes peril into those faced with ladders or bungee jumps, but now his heart rose into his mouth. His took a couple of deep breaths to stop his head swimming, then saw the pink speck of Margolotta in the distance.

Well, he was damned if she was going to beat him.

He steadied himself, then pushed once backwards and felt the ground shift underneath him as the pieces of wood started to slide over the snow.

As he picked up speed and the mountain appeared to become steeper he was glad for the goggles that Margolotta had insisted he wear. The wind whipped into his face and through his hair, and tiny snow crystals turned into daggers as they hit his skin. As he soared down the mountain the smooth snow gave no friction, so he kept on accelerating and accelerating until, presumably, the ground levelled off and he crashed into a tree.

How had Margolotta said you stopped?

Vetinari was far too practical to enjoy sliding down a mountain atop two very flimsy pieces of wood. He kept thinking about the possibilities of a) falling over, b) crashing into a tree or c) never being able to stop moving. He was also considering his successor, which at the moment fell to his aunt in Pseudopolis.

He had once had a discussion with Leonard about his investigations into terminal velocity. According to the man, there came a point in every journey where the forces acting on a body were balanced and there could be no further advancements in speed.

Vetinari really hoped that he reached that point soon.

HELLO?

Vetinari turned to stare at Death. 'Really?' he said sarcastically. 'This is how it ends?'

Death seemed uncomfortable. I'M NOT ENTIRELY SURE.

'I thought you were certain?'

I COULD BE A HALLUCINATION WHICH HAS ORIGINATED FROM TERROR AND FLYING DOWN A HILL.

'But a hallucination wouldn't say that.'

IT'S ALL TO DO WITH THE UNCERTAINTY PRINCIPLE. YOU MIGHT DIE. OR YOU MIGHT NOT.

'How would I be dying?'

I'M NOT ALLOWED TO TELL YOU THAT. HOWEVER, IT WON'T BE BY AN ASSASSIN.

'Oh, excellent.'

Death disappeared, and Vetinari turned back to the slope. Oddly, he didn't seem to have moved.

In the distance, he could see the tiny pink figure of Margolotta waving to him. He gritted his teeth against the incoming snow and tried to direct his feet so that he wouldn't run into her.

It did not work.

He could see Margolotta's eyes widen as he hurtled towards her and she darted out of the way as he flew straight past her.

'Turn your feet,' she screamed.

Ah. That was how you stopped.

Vetinari managed to twist his feet so that they were at ninety degrees to the direction he was moving at. This, in a way, made him stop because he fell straight over, face first, into the snow. Snow slid under his jumper as he tried to stand up, but the pieces of wood were proving difficult.

Behind him, he could hear Margolotta running up to him, like him hindered by the contraptions attached to her. 'Could I have a hand?' he asked, raising his head and spitting out a mouthful of snow.

She reached down and grabbed his arm, hoisting him upright. He stood there, wobbling slightly and really wishing he hadn't just travelled at breakneck speed down a mountain with an empty stomach.

'Again?' she asked, eyebrows raised. 'Igor has this vonderful machine vith seats vhich he can use to transport us back to the top.'

'No,' he said firmly.

'Really? You surprise me.'

'No, Margolotta. I will do anything you want if you don't make me go down that mountain again.'

'Anything?'

'We've discussed the limits. There is such thing as diplomacy, after all.'

'It has never stopped us before, Havelock.'

He turned to glare at her, and she sighed. 'Fine. But you have to carry the soars back to the castle.'


	31. Correspondence - Fred Colon

**To all my reviewers: THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU, I love you all, you are amazing etc. :D**

**To Madam du batty (as a guest I can't PM you) yes, I would be honoured if you put this on tumblr. Thank you :)**

**So, enjoy**

Sergeant Colon entered the kitchen and smiled when he saw his wife's note on the sideboard.

_'Porridge, you ungrateful bastard. Make it yerself.'_

Sighing, he poured the porridge grains into the bowl, added some milk which she had helpfully brought in from the doorstep before she left and _not_ broken onto the carpet where he would have to clean it up before she got home, and put it in a saucepan. Memories of his days in the regiment floated up in the steam of the porridge, where he was put in charge of cookery because no one else was as good an eater as Fatty Colon. This was something he was almost certainly not going to tell his colleagues about.

He had left the house the evening before because Angua had come round telling him that they'd cornered the man who'd been kidnapping children around the Shades. Colon didn't do much active policing now, preferring to stay on desk duty, but this was All Officers. Every copper knew what that meant. You got there fast, otherwise the trouble might come to you first.

In his distraction, he had forgotten to put the tea on for his wife. It was two o'clock in the afternoon, anyway, and would have been burnt to a crisp by the time she returned from work, but, to both of their annoyance, he had forgotten to leave a note explaining his whereabouts, which in her book was a capital crime. In a marriage where the two people only ever communicated through hastily written sentences on the backs of envelopes, not leaving a note was fatal.

The porridge was done. He tipped it out into a bowl and winced as the first mouthful scalded his tongue, but he knew that Mrs Colon would not be happy if he used up too much of the milk. Several strangulated noises later, and the bowl was empty.

It was seven o'clock in the morning. Colon went to bed.

* * *

He was woken by Angua hammering on his door. Bleary eyed, he stumbled out of bed and narrowly missed his wife's precious vase which her Auntie Verity had given them for their wedding day, which they both hated so stored in the place no one would really look.

He tripped down the stairs, felt his heart rise into his mouth as the floor rose up to meet him and bounced slightly as he landed on his stomach. Colon staggered up and walked over to the door just as Angua managed to open it.

'Hey, no breaking into my house!'

'You weren't answering,' she said calmly, putting the lock picks back into her pocket. 'Come on.'

'What for?'

'Riot in the Shades. Protesting that we're questioning that man instead of shooting him down on the spot, I suppose, but no one really knows.'

'Alright, alright, I'm coming.'

Angua hesitated, and looked slightly awkward. 'Sorry, sarge, but you're in your drawers. I know this is Ankh-Morpork, but still-'

Colon blushed bright red, and turned round to walk up the stairs, hopefully without tripping this time. 'Give me a minute.'

Angua leaned against the wall and looked at the paintings on the wall, if you could call them that. Most had been done by either Colon's children and grandchildren, though there were a few that she suspected Colon had done himself due to the signature on the bottom, and were random blobs of paint scattered around a sheet of greasy paper marked with smears of pudding. She shook her head; parents had funny ways.

She had never really thought about Colon having a family and a wife or a life outside the Watch, to be honest. He was, as Mister Vimes said, a 'persistent floater', like Nobby and Carrot as well, if you thought about it.

Colon came back down the stairs again, and stared at Angua in horror. 'I've got to make dinner!'

'Colon, I know you love your food, but seriously?'

'No, no.' Colon was rushing into the kitchen and rattling around in drawers. 'For the missus. She gets mad if I don't leave her her tea.'

Angua had picked up the note. 'I can see.'

'Oh, gods.' Colon was looking in the back of cupboards for something, anything. 'What doesn't burn?'

'What?'

'Well, I can't put anything on which'll burn, it'll be hours 'til she gets home. What doesn't need cooking?'

'Um…salad?'

'Salad!' Colon's face fell. 'I don't have salad.'

'Um…how about you come home with some chips after you've dealt with the riots? Because we really do need to go.'

'That's a good idea,' Colon mused. 'Should I make it romantic?'

'Why are you asking me? And romantic _chips_?'

'Well, you're a woman.' He refrained from adding '_Most of the time_'. 'And should I get something more romantic? Maybe a curry?'

'Look, why can't you just eat chips together? What's the big deal?'

Colon turned around. 'We don't eat meals together. I leave her tea, she leaves me breakfast. I haven't had dinner with her since…since Hogswatch, and that was only 'cos the kids were home.'

Angua seemed baffled, having not heard about the Colon style of marriage. 'But you've got kids.'

'Yeah, and they're all born about nine months after Hogswatch. Makes birthdays easier.'

Angua burst out laughing and tried to hide her face. 'Sorry, sorry. It's just I can't imagine that.'

'Angua, I need some ideas!'

She waved her hands around in the air. 'Oh, I don't know. Why not take her out somewhere?'

Colon thought about it for a few minutes. 'That's good. Where should I take her? I mean, there's nowhere real romantic around here, not if you don't want to pay an arm and a leg for it.'

'Can we please discuss it while walking?'

'Oh. Yeah. That riot.'

'Yes, the riot. _And_ Mister Vimes is going to go spare.'

* * *

Colon entered the house and was confronted with an extremely angry Mrs Colon.

'Where. Is. My. _Tea_?'

Colon gulped, and stepped back slightly. 'I was going to take you out.'

Her eyes narrowed. 'Why? What have you done?'

'I couldn't make dinner…riot in the Shades…Angua came…salad…'

'Fred, you're babbling. And who's this Angua?' she said suspiciously.

'She's another sergeant, and she's going out with Carrot. You know, six foot man?' He took a deep breath. 'I thought…I didn't have time to make dinner, because there was a riot in the Shades. I had to go and deal with it, and it was too early to make tea.'

'So you want to take me out.'

Colon was perplexed. It sounded like a question, but he had a suspicious feeling that it wasn't. He went for the only option which sounded vaguely plausible. 'Um…yes?'

Mrs Colon shrugged. 'Alright. Just let me get changed.'

* * *

An hour later (women don't rush) Colon and Mrs Colon were escorted to their seat at Ankh-Morpork's premium restaurant, The Quirmian Experience.

'This looks expensive, dear,' Mrs Colon whispered. 'Look, they've got fabric napkins.'

Colon nodded, still amazed that he and his wife were actually having dinner together without the children and without the gaudy decorations. It was...strange.

It wasn't that he didn't love his wife. Colon loved his wife very much, and wouldn't do anything to upset her, not least because he had met one man who had dated her and cheated on her and…well, let's say the man wouldn't be doing anything of the sort ever again, at least not until the stitches came out. They had three children, six grandchildren - or was it seven? - and their family had always worked because they were never in close proximity enough to argue with each other. It was the perfect family relationship.

But now they were sitting awkwardly across from each other and fiddling with their glasses as the waiter smiled at them in that plastic way that suggested there had been a few too many difficult customers today and you had better not be another*.

'Um, where's the menu?' Colon asked uncertainly.

'In the books, sir.'

Colon opened up the leather bound book and squinted at the curly writing. It looked a bit too posh for a man who survived on genuine Ankh-Morpork curry with extra swede and had even eaten one of Throat Dibbler's sausage-inna-buns before now.

'Do you have steak?' he said.

'Oh, yes. We have steak au poivre, steak à l'orange, steak tartare…'

Colon narrowed his eyes. He knew this trick; there was one steak on there which was raw and they tried to confuse people with the Quirmian. He was damned if he could remember which one it was, though.

Thankfully, Mrs Colon, who also knew the stories, spoke up. 'Which one's the raw one?'

'Steak tartare, madame. Will you be having that?'

'Ye gods, no. 's unhealthy.'

The waiter's strained smile was coming under tension now. 'I'll have the orange steak, please,' Colon said, noticing his desperation.

'Me too,' Mrs Colon said, slamming the book together. 'With chips.'

Colon looked at her, and smiled. 'Me too.'

The waiter looked slightly startled, but decided not to argue with a Mrs Colon who desperately needed chips. 'Yes, madam.'

'What a lovely man,' Mrs Colon commented, swirling the water in her glass around. 'Do you think this water's free?'

'Probably.'

She gulped it down, and poured herself another glass. ''s good water,' she said, although it was slightly muffled.

Colon tried it. Yes, it was good water.

Though it wasn't going to make him come here more often. He'd glanced at the prices on the menu.

* * *

*Pity these people. Feel their pain, or at least give them a decent tip.


	32. Linger - Angua

Granny Weatherwax and Nanny Ogg walked through the apparently haunted forest knowing full well that there were terrible things in the woods, and that they were Esme Weatherwax when it had been a long day and she'd had enough. As they walked it seemed even the trees avoided her. All animals within a two hundred yard radius fled at the sound of her hobnailed boots thumping against the packed dirt.

All but one. And the term 'animal' was slightly ambiguous when it came to Angua's species.

What Granny Weatherwax saw was a pack of wolves being led by a pretty, if slightly terrifying, young woman.

What Nanny Ogg (the more sentimental of the two) saw was a woman who needed a decent meal, a bath and, if she would let them close enough, a hug.

What Angua saw was an extremely terrifying striking old woman, who was glaring at her in a slightly predatory way, standing next to a rotund woman with oddly shaped skirts and a friendly smile.

She broke into a run.

So did Granny Weatherwax.

Simply because she didn't think that the woman could stand the shock, and because she didn't want to have to show her, Angua didn't change, just sprinted as fast as she could until she felt Granny Weatherwax's bony hand on her shoulder. She span round, snarling, only to see Granny laughing.

'Relax, girl,' she said. 'I ain't goin' to hurt you.'

Angua seemed poised to flee, and Granny Weatherwax eyed the wolf pack which had followed her, but not attacked, out of the corner of her eye. 'What're you doing here?'

'Just travelling.'

'Yeah, right,' scoffed Granny.

Nanny Ogg had finally managed to catch up with them, and looked Angua up and down. 'Werewolves aren't usually pretty,' she commented.

Angua blushed.

'You don't need any help, do you?' Granny asked uncomfortably.

'Oh, no. I'm fine.'

'Of course you are,' Nanny said, winking at Esme. 'Ain't it just normal for a werewolf running away from a big city to pick up a tribe of wolves on the way?'

'How did you-'

'Your badge.'

Angua looked down at the front of her top, where she had completely forgotten to take her Watch badge off. 'Oh.'

'Listen, you'll be resting in a while, won't you?'

'I'm not sure.'

'Well you and the doggies look a bit worn out, so why don't you come and stay with me for the night.'

Angua had to admit that the promise of a warm bed sounded nice, but why the hell would the woman invite a werewolf into her house?

She became aware of a frantic whispering between the two women.

'What the hell are you doing?'

'I'm bein' nice.'

'No you ain't. She's just interestin'.'

Angua cleared her throat awkwardly and the whispering ceased abruptly. 'Um, you do know I'm a werewolf, right?'

'Oh, yes.'

'And you're inviting me in?'

'Yes.'

Angua shrugged. 'All right. That would be lovely.'

Nanny Ogg stuck out a hand and grasped Angua's cold one. 'Gytha Ogg, but you can call me Nanny. That's Mistress Weatherwax, she's even more scary when you get to know 'er.'

'Really?' Angua asked apprehensively.

'Why's the big wolf unhappy?' Esme asked.

'I've got no idea.'

'Again, yeah right,' Nanny interjected. 'Come on, you're bloody freezin'.'

Angua turned round and barked a couple of words, and one or two of the wolves whined. She ignored them, and turned away. 'Angua von Uberwald,' she told them.

'Ah, you're from Uberwald.'

'Yes.'

'It's cold there.'

'Yes.'

'And rocky.'

Angua smiled slightly at their astounding geographical knowledge. 'In many places.'

'Hmm.' Nanny Ogg kept walking, and waved as Esme left them to it to walk up to her cottage. 'Don't mind her, she don't like people.'

'I would have thought she'd be fine with me.'

'Ah, species ain't her concern. It's what they want from her.'

Angua nodded. 'I know the feeling.'

'You're a copper, then?'

'Was a copper.'

Nanny nodded. 'So, what are you running away from?' she said conversationally.

'Who said I'm running away from anything?'

'You're right. What are you running to?'

'Home. My family's done something stupid.'

'Any fella back in the city?' Nanny asked, cleaning her fingernails absentmindedly as if she didn't really care about it.

'There was.'

'What was his name?'

'Carrot.'

Nanny raised her eyebrows. 'He was a ginger, then?'

'Yes, but it was more his shape. He had really broad shoulders.'

'I see. And you've left him. With his really broad shoulders.'

It was a statement rather than a question, and Angua considered sending this woman back to the Watch. 'I had to.'

Nanny didn't say much after that until they reached her house, a snug, brick cottage in the centre of the village.

'I thought witches lived out in the countryside,' Angua said, looking up at it.

'Well, I thought werewolves were terrifying monsters,' Nanny said kindly. 'Turns out we were both wrong.'

As she opened the smart, blue painted door a crowd of young women shrank to the walls of the hall while she surveyed them critically. 'Seems to be in order,' she finally admitted.

She turned round to Angua. 'Girls, we have a visitor. This is Angua, she's def'nitely not runnin' away from anything, oh, and she's a vegetarian.'

Angua stayed silent. 'Oh, please, you're a peace loving werewolf who prefers to stay human. It wasn't amazingly hard to figure out.'

A couple of the women nodded at her. 'And these are my daughters-in-law. Bloody useless,' she whispered to Angua as she steered her through to the kitchen.

'Sit down, make yourself at home, though I'm sure you'll be leaving in the mornin'.'

'Probably.' Angua awkwardly sat down in an uncomfortable looking chair, just because she was sure that this wouldn't be Nanny Ogg's chair. It didn't look big enough, for a start.

'Do you want a drink of anything?'

'Just water, please.'

Nanny plonked a tiny shot glass down in front of her, full of a liquid that, to Angua, smelled mostly of apples. She didn't want to know what the rest was, so shut her nose down. 'This is what we call water here.'

Angua picked the glass up, threw her head back and gulped the fiery liquid down. Her head burst into flames and she grimaced, but managed to stay upright.

'Well done,' Nanny said, in the tones of one who viewed the ability to down shots as a way of determining a person's nature*. 'That's some of Magrat's stuff, first time she's ever made it.' Nanny sniffed the glass tankard. 'Too many apples in it.'

'What's Magrat's surname?' Angua asked cautiously.

'Garlick. Why?'

Angua paused, remembering the name and who had told her it. 'I know someone who knew her.'

'Your young man, right? Carrot, was it?'

'Yes.'

'He from around here?'

'Copperhead.'

Nanny regarded her for a moment. 'I don't know many broad shouldered dwarfs,' she said suspiciously.

'He's human. Just brought up by dwarfs.'

'Bit myffic, is that?'

'What?'

'Myffic. Y'know, like destiny and crowns and axes and stuff like that.'

'Probably. He's apparently some sort of king, but doesn't want to be.'

'Hmm.'

Nanny put a plate in front of her, stacked high with bread and cheese and a thousand different vegetables, most of which Angua didn't recognise. 'Thanks.'

'That'll put a bit of weight on you. Far too skinny.'

'There's not much good eating in the Watch.'

'That your coppering?'

'Yes.'

Nanny watched Angua whilst she ate, figured some things out and went upstairs to make the bed. Just to test her, she made up the double bed with some cheapy sheets.

Without even meaning to, she spread the smell of soap everywhere as she was cleaning.

Angua walked apprehensively up the stairs, looking at the assembled trophies of Nanny Ogg - some postcards from Quirm, a fishing buoy and a gnome doing...Angua didn't want to think about what the gnome was doing.

'You'll take this room.'

The room was...spartan, and free of the paraphernalia of Oggdom. The bed was clean and tidy and...oh gods, it had Carrot's sheets and his smell and...

She managed to keep her face blank as she turned back to Nanny. 'Thank you.'

'I'll leave you to it. You can borrow a nighty if you want.'

Angua narrowed her eyes and Nanny laughed. 'No, mine'd be a bit big. You can have one off'f the girls.'

'Thanks.'

Nanny Ogg, after wrangling a spare nightdress off one of the more obstinate daughters which was still too big for Angua, left her to it.

Angua curled up in the middle of the bed, and tried to sleep. After a couple of hours she got up and opened the window, just to try and get rid of the smell. It didn't work.

* * *

*Which it is, of course.

* * *

Nanny Ogg woke up into the middle of the night by Greebo jumping on the bed, claws outstretched, and heard the sound of sobbing come from the bedroom next to hers.

Moving surprisingly quietly after dislodging the cat, she crept down the corridor towards Angua's room. Through the crack in the door she could see the girl sitting on the right side of the bed, the blankets wrapped around her and tear tracks glistening in the white light of the new moon.

Angua seemed to be turning something around in her fingers, and Nanny realised it was that badge. The cold breeze blew the loose strands of hair around her face as she stared at the tiny shield.

Nanny left her to it.

* * *

Angua was gone before first light, leaving a small note of thanks and taking the food that Nanny had left out for her, including the bottle of scumble.

When she was cleaning her room later Nanny discovered the badge under the bed, tucked into a crack in the floorboards. She put it in her little box to keep it safe.


	33. Charm - Carrot

**Another slightly Carrot/Angua fic again - I may have a teensy obsession, but it's okay, I can control it.**

**Also, 2000 HITS! I love everyone who reads this, so virtual cookies to you all. They're chocolate chip.**

**Enjoy :)**

* * *

_'He's got krisma. Bags and bags of it.'_

Sergeant Colon, in his own functionally illiterate way, had got it spot on.

Carrot had charisma. People liked Carrot; it was virtually impossible not to. They listened to what he said, nodded along like it was polite to then realised that all along they were thinking exactly the same thing as him. It was like magic, the way he could convince Ankh-Morpork's ur-mob to think that they didn't want to take the law into their own hands when one of their own had been murdering innocent old ladies and that it was a far better idea to be getting along home whilst the professionals dealt with the man. The eventual outcome was the same, but Colon had found it a lot easier to deal with the city if Carrot was around to placate them.

Carrot liked _everyone_, and that meant everyone. He could even find it in his heart to be pleasant to the posh, obnoxious nobs up in Ankh who were making a pile from renting out shacks down in the Shades that Colon wouldn't let his dog sleep in.

But then, when questioned, Carrot would go all _reasonable_ on people and say that the landowners were not required to make their properties into palaces. They weren't any laws preventing them from exploiting workers on less than a dollar a day, though he was careful not to say this in front of Mister Vimes. And the people believed him, at least up until they reached the Shades and saw the cesspits and thought 'Hang on...'

Carrot didn't have an unreasonable bone in his body. And that made his life perfect for a book, but not so perfect when it came to real life.

But he was safe, as no one would think of raising a hand to Carrot. Dwarfs liked him because somehow he was one of their own, trolls liked him because he understood their rituals and was nearly as tall as them, Constable Angua apparently liked Carrot a lot, well, from what he could hear and how Carrot went red whenever she walked into the room.

Carrot could become king, Colon thought in the still mildly naive part of his brain buried beneath the Vimesian cynicism.

And what good would that do him? the cynicism cut in, overriding the minority. When all he wants to do is be a copper?

Colon shook his head and returned to his paperwork. You knew where you were with the sweeping roster.

* * *

Vimes waited outside the Patrician's office with his helmet on his knees, tapping his foot along with the irregular clock and making sure he focused on something other than the mishmashed tick and tock.

Finally, the door to the Oblong Office swung open. 'The Patrician will see you now,' Drumknott said, holding the door open for Vimes.

'How's his leg?' Vimes whispered. Drumknott kept his face carefully blank.

'It's healing, commander.'

Vimes walked into the office and nearly grinned as he saw a rather disgruntled Lord Vetinari sitting behind the desk with his leg, firmly bound in plaster, resting on a chair.

'How is it, sir?' he asked.

'It will heal, I'm sure,' Vetinari replied, glaring at the cast. 'Meanwhile, it is proving awkward.'

'Can I sign it?'

'What?'

'Can I sign your cast?' Vimes asked. 'I'll make sure it says my full name.'

'Commander, I feel you are making a mockery of me.'

'Sorry, sir. It's traditional, you see.'

'No, commander, you may not sign my cast, mostly because I'm getting it off tomorrow and don't want to waste ink, and also because I fear you will have drawn an obscene symbol on it in permanent pen.'

'Like what?' Vimes asked innocently. Vetinari just simply smiled faintly at him.

'Now, back to business,' he said, turning over a sheet of paper. 'Now, what is your view on the recent revelation that Captain Carrot might be king?'

'Which revelation would this be, sir?'

Vetinari sighed. 'Don't go playing the idiot, Vimes, even if it is a persona you do ever so well. My leg's painful and the Silicon Anti-Defamation League's on my case again, so now would be an excellent time for you to be straight with me.'

'I thought you said it was healing.'

'It _itches_, commander. Now, what was your response?'

Vimes considered it for a moment, then shrugged. 'It was fairly obvious, to be frank, sir. He walks around this city like he owns it - not in an arrogant way, just because he thinks he's responsible for it - he's got a birthmark shaped like a crown, Angua told me that-'

Vetinari looked perplexed, and glanced at another sheet in front of him. 'Oh, I see. Do continue.'

'And everyone likes Carrot,' Vimes said, trying to catch a glimpse of the sheet which might tell him the answer to what exactly the relationship between the constable and the captain was. 'I mean, everyone. He'd be a good king, so I doubt he'd last the day.'

'Of course, you have to be an evil tyrant to rule Ankh-Morpork,' Vetinari said mildly. 'So, you don't think he'd be any good at it?'

'Oh no, sir. He'd be good at it alright, but he wouldn't be able to deal with all the politics. His mind's too simple for that.'

'I've heard that he can be remarkably complex at times, commander.'

'By who?' Vimes was still trying to read the paperwork.

'Is that important?'

Vimes was stuck trying to explain Carrot's mind to Vetinari. The man was a walking enigma, one which looked simple and normal until you actually thought about it and realised that it took a very complex mind to unravel this conundrum. 'He's...complex in his simplicity.'

'I see.' Vetinari gave him a bright smile. 'That will be all, commander. I trust that you will be discrete about this conversation.'

'Yes, sir.'

'Do not let me detain you.'

Vimes walked out, having long before worked out what that phrase of the Patrician's meant. It meant, in absolute clarity for those who knew enough about the Patrician to spot a trap in every conversation: leave before I _do_ detain you.

Of course the Patrician would be...interested in the possibility of Carrot as king; as an all tyrannical leader you saw plots everywhere. But Vimes was fairly sure that Carrot didn't even want to be king.

Fairly sure.

* * *

Angua and Carrot were sat on his bed, eating curry out of trays. They were still in the stage of the relationship between two colleagues where it was awkward eating with other colleagues for fear of the sniggers.

Carrot dropped a piece of chicken onto the bed and quickly scooped it up with a poppadom whilst she grinned. 'Nice save.'

'Thanks.'

They ate in silence, both of them still not entirely used to the...comfort. It wasn't a passionate relationship between the two of them, because Angua had a sneaky suspicion that Carrot wouldn't know passionate if it hit him round the face with a club, it was more...friendly. Safe. And gods' knew she hadn't felt that in a while.

Eventually Angua picked up Carrot's empty tray and glass and took it over to his desk. 'Another letter from your parents?' she asked as she spotted a letter on top of the map of the city.

'Yes. Dad's a bit stressed with the Number 5 shaft - apparently it's not producing as much gold as they expected.'

'Must be a hell of a job, being king,' Angua said cautiously. Carrot was oblivious to the hint.

'Well, he has advisors.'

She walked back over and sat on the bed next to him, leaning into his shoulder. 'Carrot, you know Cruces?'

'Yes?'

'And all that stuff he said about you being king?'

'Yes?'

She hesitated, not wanting to make things awkward. 'Would you be king?'

He paused, and leaned against the back wall. His eyebrows came together and she rested her head on his chest, feeling the strength of his muscles against her cheek through the thin fabric.

'I don't know,' he said finally. 'I mean, it would be good, to be able to help...'

'But?'

'But people should be able to do what they want. I mean, I have enough trouble getting them to do things because the _law_ tells them to do or not do it, not because I tell them. It would be even harder if I was king.'

'But you could make them do the right things.'

'And then they'd rebel because I wasn't giving them any choice.'

She nodded, listening to his worried breathing. 'You don't have to do it.''

'It seems like people want me to.'

'But you don't want to. It's like any job - if you want to do it you'll be good at it, if you don't you'll be...'

'Bad?' he finished off.

'No. You could never be a bad king. But I think you wouldn't get any enjoyment from being in that position.'

He sighed. 'I just want things to stay the same. I don't want to be the commander of Mister Vimes, I don't want to feel like everyone looks up to me just because I've got a crown.'

She turned around and looked up at his honest face. 'You'd be a good king.'

'But people don't want a good king.'

'I'm amazed at the cynicism,' she said dryly. 'Vimes been talking to you again?'

A crease came between Carrot's eyebrows. 'No. He hasn't mentioned it.'

'That's good of him.'

'Vetinari did, though. He showed me the Throne. It's all rotten through.'

'He doesn't use it much, does he?'

'No, but that's not it. It was almost as if he was hinting that the whole royalty thing is...outdated. Out of place.'

Angua was impressed. Sometimes it took a genius to make Carrot understand subtleties. 'Just don't worry about it.'

He looked down at her, and then at how they were lying. 'Um...'

She smiled, and gently slid up his body until they were looking into each other's eyes. She kissed his lips, slightly chapped where he had been biting on them in nervousness, and smiled as he closed his eyes and finally let himself relax.


	34. Roads - Polly Perks

Polly Perks, Ambassador for Borogravia, waited awkwardly in the Patrician's waiting room and felt her brain turn into porridge with the arrhythmic clock.

She wiped her hands on her skirt, which she had been made to wear by whoever it was that was ruling Borogravia. She should probably know, but with all the kerfuffle that had been going on who was in charge didn't really matter to her any more. As she stared blankly at the heavy wooden door it swung open without a sound from the hinges.

_Probably terrified into silence_, she thought bitterly. _I might be._

She stood up and looked questioningly at the clerk who had stood next to it. He looked like clerks everywhere; neat, slightly obsessive and very shiny shoes.

'The Patrician will see you now, Miss Perks.'

'Sergeant,' she snapped.

'I apologise,' the clerk said calmly, holding the door open. 'Sergeant Perks, then. Do enter.'

Vetinari was sitting on a high backed, sturdy chair behind a desk which was remarkably free of paperwork for a man who ruled a city this large. She had only gotten a hint of the scale of the place as the coach rolled in, but by glancing out of the window she could see packed streets and crowded building, claustrophobia personified as far as she could see.

_Do I bow?_ she thought. _Do I curtsy? Oh hell, what do I do?_

She settled for a brief nod and cursed herself for seeming too haughty.

'Do sit down, sergeant,' Vetinari said, smiling in a friendly sort of way. She sat down gratefully, and watched him watch her for a moment.

'And how are you adapting to the diplomatic life?'

'Well, this is my first event. I'll have to see how it goes.' She cursed herself for being more forward than she should be, but Vetinari merely chuckled.

'I am given to understand that you wish to discuss the continuing refugee problem between our two nations.'

The clerk that she had been interviewed by on her entrance to the Palace had been a lot less open, preferring exceptional vagueness instead. 'So we are having one?'

The Patrician stood up and moved over to the window, where he could see the Shambling Gate and the crowds amassed there. 'Yes, I would say that there's a problem.'

* * *

The Watch was failing to keep order.

Sergeant Angua and Captain Carrot were on one side of the gate, Sergeant Detritus on the other, which seemed to be working. Carrot and Detritus were scary uniforms, and Angua…well, Vimes could convince himself that he had placed her there because she vaguely knew the Borogravians, but in reality she was just scary. Several people were preferring to face the troll rather than her.

'Do you have a passport,' Detritus rumbled.

'Yes.'

Detritus looked perplexed and glanced at Vimes. 'Oh-kay. Can I see der passport?'

The man handed it over and Detritus regarded it for a good five minutes.

'Sergeant, a little more speed?' Vimes called.

'Sorry, sir.' The passport was duly returned and the man waved through. 'I rec-o-mend Harga's House of Ribs.'

Vimes wasn't against his officers moonlighting as such, but not as speaking billboards. 'How much is Sham Harga paying you to say that?'

Detritus looked perplexed again; it was a face he did well. 'It's a decent food place, sir.'

Vimes sighed as he looked at the crowds of refugees, which were barely being contained by Constable Dorfl and Constable Bluejohn. He was willing to bet that that man was one of the few in the crowd who actually had a valid passport; apparently the refugees had heard that Vimes the Butcher had some problem with literacy. Still, Vimes reasoned, there weren't that many educated barbarians.

_Vimes the Butcher_, he thought, and grinned mirthlessly.

Meanwhile, Carrot was cuffing a man's hands behind his back and Vimes could hear him reading out the man's rights.

'Captain, you do know he's not a citizen of Ankh-Morpork, don't you?'

'Oh yes, sir. These are the Immigrants and Rebels rights.'

'They have those?' he mouthed to Angua. She shrugged and moved over to the unfortunate man, whispering something into his ear. He looked up at Vimes, terrified, and babbled something indistinguishable to her.

She sighed. 'Carrot, you can let him go.'

'But he assaulted a watch officer.'

'It was a troll who's big by troll standards, and I really doubt he's going to try and enter the city by any illegal or legal means ever again,' she said patiently, rolling her eyes at Vimes.

'How do you know?'

'I just…do.'

Carrot looked confused, but unlocked the cuffs. 'Alright, you can go. But don't do it again.'

The man fled.

Vimes took hold of Angua's wrist. 'What did you tell him?'

'Oh, nothing much, sir. Just that you have a taste for human flesh but I've been restraining you.' She evidently saw the irony of this and grinned before moving back to the gate.

No doubt about it, the sergeant was scary.

* * *

'So, sergeant,' Vetinari said pleasantly. 'How do you propose we deal with the problem?'

'I'm an ambassador, my lord. I just come here to talk to you so that we're making progress, or at least that's what it looks like. That's what I was told, anyway.'

Vetinari's smile didn't change. 'Oh, I know all about ambassadors. I was just wondering if you, as a citizen of Borogravia, had any solutions.'

Polly thought.

'Well, it seems that people are coming here because they want a better life. If life wasn't as bad back home they wouldn't have any reason to flee.'

'So, what should be done?'

'I think we should form some sort of peace treaty with you and Zlobenia and Mouldavia so that we can actually focus on our problems rather than fighting in all these stupid wars. Then we could form trade links with you…' Polly fell silent as she looked at the Patrician's blank face which, behind the mask, might have been thinking Here's an opportunity…

'Do go on, Miss…sorry, Sergeant Perks.'

She swallowed. 'We could sell you grain and the like if you'll sell us machinery. That would be good for both of us. And I would say that you can put the clacks towers in, because that'll just make even more trade, but the rulers might not like it.'

'And what to do with the refugees?'

'Say there's been a truce, maybe?'

'You think that'll fool them?'

'They don't want to be here, sir. They've got families and friends back home, but they haven't got a job or a house or anything in the city, they've just got ideas about it which it isn't living up to. Oh, and they've smelt it,' she added.

The Patrician's lips twitched. 'So, we go out and tell them that there's a truce.'

'That seems to be the only option. And there _will_ actually be a truce, won't there?'

'Oh yes, sergeant. I never break my word.'

* * *

The refugees were becoming more organised now. The guilds, in a true celebration of the Ankh-Morpork trait of finding a business in anything, were busy recruiting.

There had been stalls set up around the Shambling Gate for the different professions. Tall hatted wizards sat next to the representatives from the Thieves Guild, which was causing a bit of confusion, whilst the Assassins had set up a stall on top of the tallest building around, on the grounds that trainee Assassins should be no strangers to heights. But at least it was quieter now, apart from the ever present calls of Cut-Me-Own-Throat-Dibbler, always ready to find some new and unsuspecting customers.

'Genuine Ankh-Morporkian sausages!' he was calling. 'Limited Edition!'

Vimes found Angua leaning against a wall enjoying the view, her face carefully blank.

'Sergeant?'

She turned to face him. 'Yes?'

'You know the ambassador, yes?'

'Who, Perks? I guess you could say so.'

'And what do you think of her?'

'Well, I'm not quite sure why she's the ambassador. She seemed…tricky, to be honest, but in a good way. Inclined to speak her mind, and she had an honest smell.'

'An honest smell?'

'It's complicated, sir.'

He shrugged. 'She's up at the Palace, I guess?'

Angua seemed to be watching something in the distance. 'No, sir, I don't think you could say that.'

Vimes turned around as Vetinari entered the square.

* * *

It was amazing, Polly thought, the way that the Patrician just had to be there for it all to fall silent. Even the wizards paused in their shouts for people with No Other Talents who hadn't already been snapped up by the Teachers' Guild, who had left at three o'clock precisely.

It was also amazing how Vetinari already seemed to have the appropriate documents for the treaty already. It was almost like he had been planning it…

'Gentlemen and ladies,' the Patrician called. 'And, of course, our welcome refugees.'

A couple of the Borogravians at the back started cheering, but were hastily hushed and shoved into silence.

'The ambassador, Sergeant Perks, and I, would like to announce the signing of a new truce and trading treaty between our two countries. This, we hope, will enable more cooperation between us.'

'What about the clacks?' someone shouted.

'Well, that is up to the citizens of Borogravia, I am sure.'

Polly stepped forward. 'We're under consultation with the generals at the moment, but we'll have to see when they get back to us. May be a while.'

Vimes elbowed Angua in the ribs. 'Tricky indeed.'

'Furthermore,' Vetinari said. 'With this trade agreement comes more money being earned back in Borogravia. Therefore, there is no need to settle here. Of course, the city will arrange transport back for you.'

The people of Ankh-Morpork looked for a catch, and found one. They felt it prudent not to mention, though, considering that the bloody Borogravians would just be taking their bloody jobs. The Borogravians, not being the sort to automatically question every single thing they were told, started to form an orderly queue. The Guilds seemed bereft.

Vimes hurried up to Vetinari. 'You are going to sign the truce, aren't you?'

'Oh, for now, commander.'

'What do you mean?'

'Well, consider the history of Borogravia. No peace treaty that the country has ever signed has lasted for more than two weeks, they just keep invading other countries.'

'So it won't really mean a thing?'

'Oh, for now it will. In the future, what does have meaning anyway?'

Vimes hated it when Vetinari got all political on him.


	35. Hunger - Angua

**As requested by Emmy MacRieve, something which I mentioned in Rise (700 words ago, I haven't been able to fit it in anyway until now). So, did the werewolves pick out a mate for Angua? It's as good a reason to leave as any, I suppose.**

**Enjoy :)**

* * *

Angua stood in the centre of the circle of braying wolves and stared at the old wolf, scarred and lanky now, opposite her.

He looked...familiar. It was something about the eyes, the way that a green glow seemed to originate from them and capture hers so that however she tried she couldn't look away. But with the emerald sheen came memories, memories of screams and bites and blood dripping over crystal snow.

'Hello, Delphine.'

* * *

It was ten years earlier.

Delphine von Uberwald stood in the middle of the pack of werewolves and shuddered, not because of the cold which was turning her skin to ice and her nerves into stinging, shaking wrecks, but because of the fear.

She felt the stares of her mother and brother on her neck, and span around in anger. 'What did I do to you?'

She was answered with a heavy slap from her mother, who smiled at the red welt that appeared on her face. Delphine flinched as Wolfgang stepped forward, took her shoulders and span her back towards the rest of the pack, his nails stabbing into her tender skin and raking down her shoulder. He always enjoyed these moments where he was stronger than her, it made some of his scars from their fights a little more bearable.

'Not so strong now, are you?' he taunted. She grabbed his hair and brought her fist round, but was stopped by the iron thump of her mother smacking her back with a force that flung her onto the ground. The breath was knocked out of her as she fell heavily, her knees bruised by the ice.

She stood up slowly, brushing tiny flecks of snow off her torso. Behind her, Wolfgang laughed and retreated.

Delphine felt her stomach sink as she faced the man in front of her.

He walked up to her and put a hand on her shoulder, slowly stroking her collarbone with one finger. 'Hello, Delphine.'

She resolutely stared ahead and he grinned, taking hold of her chin and pulling her head round to face him. 'I said hello.'

She looked up into his eyes and saw the green flecks in the hazel, concentrating on them until they seemed to consume his irises with a malicious, sickly lime colour, the colour of poison and soft, spring leaves which seemed too green to be real.

She remained silent, even when he laughed and turned to her mother. 'She's nothing like you were, Serafine.'

Her mother laughed harshly, a grating sound which cut through Delphine like a jagged knife.

'Yes,' he said slowly as he watched her. 'I think she'll be perfect.'

* * *

Angua woke up shaking and sweating, feeling the sheets writhing around her. She flailed and screamed as she felt the blanket over her face and inhaled musty cotton.

There were heavy running footsteps, the door slamming open and someone grabbing her shoulders to keep her still whilst they pulled the fabric off her face. She breathed deeply, and stared up at Vimes.

'Angua?' he asked hesitantly.

She couldn't say anything, just carried on breathing until her heart rate slowed and she had got control over herself. She raised a hand to wipe away the sweat which had beaded on her forehead.

'Angua?' he asked again, taking her hand and trying to measure her pulse. She flinched involuntarily as his finger found her vein.

'Sorry,' she said. 'Just a...a memory.'

'Shall I get Carrot?'

'No, no. I'm fine. Really.'

He looked at her flushed cheeks and panicking eyes, then at the carnage the bed had turned into. 'Gods, you're louder without Carrot than with him.'

'Inappropriate, sir.'

'Sorry,' he grinned. Then he grew serious again, and took her hand. 'Look, if you need me I'm just in the next room.'

She nodded. 'Thanks.'

'Do you want to talk about it?'

Pictures of blood and pain and snow were still crowding her head. 'No. I really don't.'

'Fair enough.' He patted her shoulder awkwardly, then rose and walked out of the door.

Eventually she wrapped the blanket around her and went over to the window, opening it to feel the cooler breeze and smelling the first hints of snow.

She remembered.

* * *

She lashed out, but the man had grabbed her wrist, wrenched her arm up and was laughing into her face. 'Feisty, I see.'

'We've always had a problem with her,' her mother told him.

'She looks like you,' the man said, releasing her arm and lifting up a strand of Angua's blonde hair and dropping it back. Her shoulders grew colder as the man held her hair behind her head and stroked her jaw line. 'But a bit more...frightened, I think.'

'She's allowed to be nervous.'

'Of course.' The man put a heavy arm across her shoulder and pulled her stiff form towards him. Delphine tensed as she felt his rough hand on her back, pressing against her spine and picking out each and every vertebrae as if he could control her. He turned around abruptly and gestured to the pack. 'Of course, she needs to be approved. Alex?'

Another man stepped forward from the pack. He was more a boy, though - he didn't look any older than her. As he came forward she could see that he was shaking as well.

Suddenly, understanding overwhelmed her and she turned to glare at her mother, who simply shrugged. The boy was closer now, and standing next to his father gave her some indication of his frailty; his skin seemed to be whiter than the snow he stood on, and was tinged with blue in the cold. Veins stood out on his wrist like ink drips as he reached out a hand to shake hers.

'For gods' sakes, boy,' his father muttered. 'You're not supposed to shake hands with her.'

But Delphine was looking into the boy's eyes and seeing the stubbornness there, and the smile that nearly twitched his lips as she reached out towards him and took his hand. It was as dry as paper.

Roughly, his father grabbed him and pushed him towards Delphine, who stumbled and caught him as she stepped back. He looked at her apologetically, but she had already seen the glints of green in his eyes and had stiffened under his grasp.

He stepped back. 'I'm sorry…I…'

She nodded and looked around. The rest of the pack, apart from his father and her mother and Wolfgang, had disappeared into the trees.

'Delphine?' her mother said.

She turned round and faced her, raising her eyebrows. 'So _you_ choose,' she said, her voice flat.

'It's for the good of the pack. He is a good pedigree, after all.'

Delphine stepped forward and her mother flinched under her stare. 'I have no say whatsoever, then? I have to go-'

'Delphine.'

'I have to go and sleep with him and marry him so that my pups can be of a decent pedigree?'

Her mother shrugged. 'Why not? It's the way it's always been done.'

'And no one's ever said no before?'

'Generally they've never had as much…spirit,' the man said from behind her, coming up to her and lifting her chin up. 'Look, Alex, look how attractive she will be. She will be a good mate.'

Delphine stepped back from him. 'But what if I don't want to?'

'You think you have a choice?' The man let out a guttural laugh and pulled her closer to him whilst her mother watched, her face blank. 'Oh, so naïve,' he whispered against her throat.

Alex came to stand beside her and she turned away from his father to look at him. 'And _you_ want this?'

He gulped, not having the decency to meet her eye.

Delphine wrenched her arm out of the man's grasp and started to run across the packed snow, feeling the cold crawling up her legs as her bare toes slapped the ground and shards of ice pricked her feet. She heard a growl and the man had pounced on her, knocking her down onto the floor. She grabbed at his legs, trying to claw at them, but he was lying on top of her and growling, a low noise from the back of his throat like nothing she had heard before.

She raised a knee, hoping to just get up from underneath him, but he groaned and rolled to one side. She picked herself up and stepped forward, only to have her arm seized by Wolfgang.

'Don't try anything, Delphine,' he warned her, his eyes lighting up.

She kicked him in the shins and he smacked her round the side of the face, and she felt pain burst in her skull. She punched his chest and grappled with his arms as he put one arm around her throat and pulled her back towards him.

'Give up, Delphine.'

He threw his fist out, and she went blank. Lights glittered in front of her eyes as she slumped down onto the snow and blacked out.

* * *

She stared into the eyes in front of her, and pounced.

Then there were arms pulling her back, but the wolf had leapt as well and had snapped at her muzzle. Angua pulled away from Vimes and Carrot and launched herself at the older, bigger and stronger wolf, teeth bared and claws outstretched.

She managed to scrape a paw down his side and change as he went for her throat, getting a kick into his nose as he fell flat onto the floor. As he changed she punched his stomach and went for his neck as a wolf, but he had grabbed her front paw and was trying to pull her around in a circle. She changed again, and punched his nose, grinning as she felt the crunch underneath her fingers.

Then, as if it was wired into her brain, she jerked back as she heard the hum of a string under tension, just as someone fired a crossbow at the werewolf. From the squeal she knew it was silver.

And then it was over. A corpse on the floor, stuck halfway between wolf and human, and a couple of physical scratches which would heal over time. Carrot put his cloak around her shoulders and she stood there shaking, watching the green glow fade away.

'Who was he?' Vimes asked.

She shook her head. 'No one you need to know about.'

'Angua?'

She pulled the shirt that Vimes had kept for her on, and noticed how he hadn't left as he usually did. 'What?'

'Was that the memory?'

She stared at him, and saw his worry. 'Yes,' she admitted.

'Damned bottle covey,' he said, kicking the body. 'You alright?'

'He didn't manage to fight much.'

'That's not what I meant.'

They watched each other for a minute, then Vimes turned away. 'Look after her, Carrot.'

* * *

**So, did you like it? Is it plausible? Please let me know :)**


	36. Reciprocity - Ned Coates

You mess around with history and something else has got to give.

It's like a balancing act; however hard the History Monks try there will always be some changes to the future, if that future even exists any more. It's the sort of thing which gives the Abbot toothache.

In one past, John Keel and a young Sam Vimes spent the night of the Twenty Third of May in the Shades, where Keel taught Vimes how to ask questions and get real answers when people didn't want to talk. There was no torture involved, they left that to the professionals, but he taught Vimes that if you walk far enough and talk to enough people you'll get answers, even if they're answers you don't want.

In another past, Sam Vimes, masquerading as John Keel, thought he would be clever and teach his younger self how to recognise a conspiracy. The trouble came when he found one. No copper should ever have to find a government conspiracy, especially when there was a high probability that he would join them.

But Morphic Street hadn't been raided _that_ night. The Unmentionables had been found out by Keel and Vimes, and the rebels without a heart scarpered before first light.

What happened when he wasn't there?

* * *

The people of the conspiracy knew that Winder would root anyone out, even those people who had nothing against him. That was why they used the most unobtrusive person ever as their messenger.

Mr Dibbler had three pies left. Two, he knew, were the special pies - that was, the ones with the tiny strip of paper in. All of Dibbler's pies were special and distinctly organic, and he was proud of it. It was the Year of the Dancing Dog, he had been running a stall since Tuesday and just knew that this time it would go well.

The streets of Ankh-Morpork were the perfect recruiting ground for the revolutionaries. You got people like Dibbler who were smart enough but never got the opportunities, so thought that a revolution could only make things better. Then you got the people who went along with the flow because they didn't have the brains to say no or the enthusiasm to really get into it. It was people who had the influence in politics - Lady Meserole, Lord Follett - who really controlled it; the people on the streets were just man power.

They - the lords and ladies with power - had put the word out about the meeting. They weren't about to attend, but it did the people good to think that they were part of the action.

Dibbler was being used as a messenger under the assurance that none of the Unmentionables would buy a Dibbler Pie. Those revolutionaries who would be attending the meeting knew to come up to Dibbler's stall, say the password given in the last meeting and take a pie, prising it open to find the new password and the designated place. He wouldn't force them to eat it. That would be…cruel.

The new sergeant in the Watch had come up and bought a pie. Dibbler had made sure to give him one without the password in. He had eaten it all though, and didn't even complain once.

Dibbler liked the new sergeant, and had thought about recruiting him for the Cause. No, he would leave that to the toffs who knew what they were doing.

* * *

No one knew where the Unmentionables had gotten the tip off from. No one really felt like asking, though.

Anyone looking closely might have noticed that the darkness seemed thicker around Morphic Street that night. Shadows seemed deeper, the dingy gleam of oil lamps glowing through some of the windows seemed to illuminate less ground than usual. It was like the darkness was fighting back.

Ned Coates walked along the back alley behind Morphic Street, glaring into the shadows but seeing nothing out of the ordinary there, even though he had just lost his night watch lighting a cigarette, which he dangled nonchalantly between his lips. No one could ever say that he was doing anything wrong, he was just a watchman wandering around aimlessly looking for a quiet smoke out of the wind. No one could begrudge him that, not even those people who liked to call themselves policemen for want of a less explicit word.

He found the doorway he was looking for, just like any other but with a particular pattern in the woodwork which his trailing hand had found as he moved along. He gave it a little push and a tiny window opened.

'Password,' it hissed.

'Swordfish.'

An eye came to the window and looked Ned up and down. 'Coates, right?'

'Yeah. It's boiling out here, you know?'

The door swung open and Ned was let into the crowded, smoky room. All lights had nearly been extinguished by the rising cloud of tobacco fumes and the air felt oily with the packed mass of Ankh-Morpork's finest. Ned managed to shoulder his way to a quieter part of the room where there was lukewarm beer on offer.

'Alright, Dibbler?' he asked casually, smelling Dibbler's sausages before he arrived.

'Not too bad, corporal, not too bad,' the man said amiably. 'Want a sausage inna bun? Only thruppence, and that's cutting me own throat.'

'Where'd you pick that phrase up?'

'Oh, that lovely Sergeant Keel. He bought a pie off me. Do you want a sausage?'

'No, thanks. I've just eaten.'

'Fair enough, fair enough,' Dibbler said, remaining cheerful. 'I'll be seeing you then, corp.'

Keel had bought a pie? From what Ned could remember from Pseudopolis, even if he had spent most of his training under the haze of cheap alcohol as was the custom in the barracks, Keel had been very conservative about what he eat. He would exercise a lot, eat far too much fruit and veg for what Ned was used to and didn't have a spare ounce on him.

The majority of Ned shrugged this off. He'd just let himself go, that was all.

The policeman part of Ned thought: yeah, and his face has completely changed and he didn't recognise you, even when you trained under him. Let himself go that much?

Ned had city eyes. Born and bred in Pseudopolis, they had been strengthened further when he was quite literally chucked in the deep end of Ankh-Morpork. And there was something wrong in the room. People were looking around nervously, they didn't know what for but they were on edge, like they could see something blurred out of the corner of their eye but as soon as they tried to focus it disappeared. They seemed haunted, well, more haunted than usual; these were men who from the day they were born were constantly on their guard, waiting for the whistle of a slap or the pounding footsteps of the coppers, or worse, their dads.

Then there was the crash of broken glass. The whole room jumped, but it was just Dibbler knocking over a cheap wine glass onto the wooden floorboards.

People returned to their conversations. Ned wondered absently when anyone would start speaking.

* * *

Outside, there was a brief flash of a firework, or maybe it was just a very bright lamp being revealed. The source wasn't important.

The shadows started to fluctuate as men, dressed in nondescript browns and blacks, stepped out from the hollows of buildings and into the grimy light of the street. Morphic Street was one of the quietest in this part of the city, so no traffic or drunken revellers returning from the pub crawl interrupted their…business.

The light flashed again, twice this time. From the darkness came the silken grind of steel swords on leather scabbards and the black glinted with sudden flashes of silver.

Then, some of the muscle in the Unmentionables stepped forward, raising the sledgehammers.

* * *

Inside the building, no different from any other on the street, a man started to climb up onto the makeshift stage to make a speech to the revolutionary cadres standing there drinking lukewarm squash and getting a little bored, and all hell broke loose.

The doors crashed onto the wooden floors with a sound like a falling tree sacrificed for one thousand books on the rainforest, the hinges tearing out of the walls and nails pinging around the room. There was the thunder of footsteps as the Unmentionables charged in and the people fled, trying to push out of the one door at the back of the room.

Dibbler went under, but rolled quickly and managed to dart up the stairs and onto the rooftop through a handy collapsed piece of roofing. Keeping low, he managed to creep through the chimneys and onto the ground, where he hid in the shadows.

Havelock Vetinari, who had been crouching in the shadows, emerged from his patch of grey and darted over the roofs back towards Ankh. His aunt had sent him with the valuable promise of another dollar and another, more exciting, opportunity. Roberta Meserole simply nodded and poured more champagne into her teddy bear mug, which she seemed to hide in her numerous petticoats.

Others weren't so lucky.

Some were killed in the stampede as one hundred people rushed for one back door. Some were killed by Unmentionables who hadn't had a good stab at anyone for ages, more precise instruments being used in most of their work. Some were killed by the archers that came in after the normal Particulars, shot in the arm or the shoulder and left to empty of blood on the treasonous floor.

Fifteen died, Ned heard, but he was gone as soon as he saw the first flash of light outside the window. The back door had been helpfully left open and he slipped out, free of the congestion and the claustrophobia caused by the packed bodies and the fear which seeped out from under the doorway. The Unmentionables had a good nose for fear, being finely tuned to the scent by now. That had given them away. Oh, there were informers for sure, but there were probably plots going on all over the city. He knew for certain that there was a group in Dolly Sisters who might have been seen as a threat.

He heard the crash of the door as it came down and the first screams. He heard the satin sound of swords slicing through the air and the buzz and zip of arrows. He heard sobbing and shouting and wailing but did nothing about it, just kept moving on.

There was no evidence that he had ever been in the meeting. He was simply a copper out for a stroll, got a bit mixed up with the streets in the dark, who'd heard the kerfuffle and walked away quickly. It was completely understandable. They were a bunch of nutters, that lot, load of dangerous anarchists threatening our lovely city, excellent government. It was Keel who had taught him to keep his mouth shut.

He went home, confident that he would never be found out.


	37. Kind - Lu Tze

On a cloudless day, which this wasn't, someone watching from the top of one of the hills in the Ramtops could see all the way down to Ankh-Morpork, and, if they squinted, the heat haze around the Klatchian deserts.

A watcher might have seen, if anyone was looking, a small monk, equipped with a broomstick and a leather satchel, walking down the road which led away from Ankh-Morpork. He was walking the wrong way, but seemed to have an air of confidence about him, as if he knew exactly where he was going and who he would meet.

The monk disappeared.

He reappeared two miles further down the road in a fraction of a second, arriving in a blink of blue. Then he was gone again, only to be ten miles ahead of where he was before. In reality, it was no distance at all compared to the length of the road between the mountains and the plains, but it was certainly a quicker way of getting from place to place.

Most people would have just thought that monks do funny things and left it at that.

A few people would have thought about quantum, but there weren't that many physicists or, indeed, educated people in the Ramtops apart from those able to list the complete system of dots and crosses on the roads from the end of the Sto Plains to Lancre. So the monk went unheeded, zipping down the road as if time didn't matter to him.

* * *

It was a grey and cloudy day, which disguised most of Ankh-Morpork for the young Lu-Tze, pushing his way through the throngs of people and the dense fog.

He had never seen so many people. The crowds that flocked to the cherry treed valley up in the Ramtops for hope of seeing some of the mythical mad monks didn't hold a candle to those in Sator Square at the moment, who seemed to be celebrating the tall, thin man on the stage, all dressed in shabby black. Lu-Tze couldn't see why, he looked like some ordinary man sitting on a chair. But they seemed to be happy enough, the man was smiling in a slightly scary way, and some people were singing some odd song about hippos and, as far as he could gather, mortgages.

It was probably an idiom of some sort, Lu-Tze assured himself. Unless they had a very odd style of currency.

He pressed through the crowds and found himself in the maze which, he found out later, was the turnwise end of Morpork, not quite the Shades in terms of housing and rat density but close enough for it not to be comfortable. He could barely read Morporkian apart from the odd words that he had picked up from the valleys, but spoke it well enough, and could just interpret what the odd stranger around him was saying. 'Who's the loony monk?' was the most common comment.

Finally, he turned onto another street and, about half way down, saw the sign:

_Mrs Marietta Cosmopilite, Dressmaker_

And then, below it:

_Rooms for rent, Very Reasonable._

He knocked on the door. An elderly woman came to it, and Lu-Tze received the feeling that he was being critically appraised from just below his chin.

'I haven't got all day, you know' she barked.

'It says Rooms for Rent,' Lu-Tze said slowly, concentrating on each syllable.

'Yeah? You want it?'

'Um, yes?' This wasn't what he was expecting.

'Fine.' She shrugged. 'Rent's a dollar a month, unless you want to work. Then it's half a dollar.'

'What sort of work?'

'Sweeping, mopping, that sort of thing.'

Lu-Tze had been a novice for a while, and domestic chores featured strongly in his studies. 'Okay. Thank you.'

She held the door open, and gestured that he should come in. 'You can have the floor,' she said, pointing at it. 'There's blankets in the cupboard, help yourself. Dinner's at seven, don't be late or you won't get any. You'll help me with sweeping in the evenings, but you'll have to get a job somewhere else too, I don't want you loitering around my house, and a penny saved is a penny earned.'

'What was that last bit?' Lu-Tze asked, frantically scribbling everything down in his notebook.

'What?'

'The last bit about pennies.'

'A penny saved is a penny earned?'

Lu-Tze dutifully wrote it down and looked up at her. 'I want to learn.'

Her eyes narrowed. 'Learn what? I'm a pretty good dressmaker, but that ain't no job for a fella.'

'Just…learning. Everything.'

She shrugged again. 'Well you can learn sweeping, how about that? I see you've got your own broom.'

'It's been very helpful.'

'If I were you I'd stay inside today, everything's a bit frantic now we've got this new Patrician. No one knows what he'll be like.'

He followed her into the kitchen. 'What was the old one like?'

'Mad Lord Snapcase? Oh, he was a nutter. Close the door! You weren't born in a barn.'

He dashed back and shut the front door, looking around the living room. It was like a palace for cleanliness; there wasn't a speck of dust or a smear of grime anywhere. Amazingly, she had managed to make rust shine.

She was starting to cook something, and Lu-Tze felt his stomach rumble. 'May I have something to eat now?'

'Do you think I'm made of money? You'll eat with the rest of 'em. Come and help me with the cooking.'

* * *

At the dinner table that night Lu-Tze was welcomed to the group of men who had sought solace in Mrs Cosmopilite's humble house, which, in Lu-Tze's mind, was like a temple. The woman must have some knowledge of the Scriptures, she quoted it regularly enough and she cleaned like a demon.

The men were around middle age, although to Lu-Tze middle age was three thousand years old, and they ate silently as Mrs Cosmopilite glared at anyone who hadn't finished their plate.

'Michael Leastways, you haven't eaten your prunes,' she announced to the table at large, who bent over their bowls of gritty prunes and custard with an uncharacteristic fervour. Lu-Tze, raised on a diet of yak milk and various raw fish, thought it was delicious.

The unfortunate man raised his head. ''m sorry, Mrs Cosmopilite. 'm full now.'

'Eat it up, it'll make your hair curly,' she said, a statement which Lu-Tze had never seen in any of Wen the Eternally Surprised's writings. Still, he was only a novice.

Leastways gulped down the last of his prunes and Mrs Cosmopilite seemed pleased. 'Right, monk boy, we're going to clean. Leastways, you're coming too, and Hobson, you didn't make your bed this morning. The rest of you can go to your rooms.'

They departed, and Lu-Tze moved over to the sink.

'Keep away from there!' she barked.

He stepped away hastily. 'I'm sorry…?'

She moved over to the cupboard and pulled out his broom, which she had apparently stolen for her own use whilst he was distracted. 'You aren't qualified for the sink,' she informed him grandly, tossing a dishcloth over to Hobson, who grabbed it gratefully. 'You'll start with mopping and sweeping, then you can do dusting, _then_ you move onto the sinks. Besides,' she said, sniffing haughtily, 'you hear all sorts of things about foreign folks.'

'Like what?'

'Oh, don't try and fool me. I'm not as green as I'm cabbage-looking. _Everyone_ knows what they say about foreign folks.'

'Foreign folks don't.'

She ignored him, and pointed back to the sweeping brush. 'Do the spare rooms first, then the occupied ones. Then the sitting room and, when this lot are done, the kitchen.'

He picked it up and shouldered it, nearly knocking over a lamp in the process. Mrs Cosmopilite, moving with surprising speed, grabbed it before it covered the floor with thick oil, and took the broom back. 'Can't you hold a bloody broom without destroying my house?'

'Sorry, Mrs Cosmopilite.'

'Get upstairs,' she said brusquely, turning back to the sink.

Lu-Tze climbed the stairs with a light heart. He was being useful, he was helping Mrs Cosmopilite, he was learning things! He was certainly learning about the queer social hierarchy which existed in the city.

He knocked on a door and, when no one shouted at him to go away, entered. It was sparsely decorated, but incredibly clean; Lu-Tze ran his hand over the mantelpiece and his hand came back white, unlike the dormitories at the monastery which were disgusting in comparison. He didn't think of himself as obsessive, but he did like cleanliness.

He started to sweep, using the time honoured method of just gently brushing the dirt to save your arms and your back. That was until Mrs Cosmopilite stormed through the door.

'And _what_ do you think you're doing?'

He span around, lowering the broom guiltily. 'Sweeping the floor.'

'You think that is sweeping?'

'It's how I've always swept.'

She tutted, and grabbed the broom off him. 'This is how we sweep a floor,' she told him, settling into a rhythm of pushing against the floor like she was trying to remove the wood from the floorboards. Under her hands the boards, grey from a hundred thousand boots, started to shine.

Lu-Tze watched in amazement as she turned to face him, broom in hand.

'That,' she told him, 'is how you sweep.'

* * *

Well, it had certainly been an interesting day.

Sweeping, he had learnt, was an art form. You had to be in full command of every bristle, you couldn't let the imbalance of weight pull you over when sweeping large areas of wooden flooring, you could not ignore the corners. People tended to look into corners automatically, you certainly didn't want them to see a huge pile* of dust which no one had bothered to clean up. When stuck in a tight corner, use a dustpan and brush to keep those corners clean. Every room had at least four corners, very few had more as this house was built for practicality rather than ornate decorating. Make sure to sweep under the bed even if you don't want to know what's under it, and keep this up, son, and you might make it onto the dusting within a month.

It was not possible to get bored with sweeping, Mrs Cosmopilite had told him. She was never bored when she was his age, which Lu-Tze, getting onto his 400th birthday, doubted, and she found comfort in a clean room. Lu-Tze had found ample time to consider the words of Wen the Eternally Surprised and the nature of Time as he settled into the rhythm of a good sweeper, and had concluded that since he wasn't really bothered with the whole 'AAAYYYYYYEEEEE _YA_!' side of his studies he would stay here for a while. No one would miss him.

He rolled over on his thin mattress which Mrs Cosmopilite had pulled down from the attic, a place only ventured into by the brave of heart, and stared at the wall.

Yes, he was happy here. He'd find a job tomorrow - Mrs Cosmopilite had said that hard work never did anyone any harm and that there were plenty of opportunities in the city for a good cleaner - and he would contemplate his Way. There was no rush to return.

Though he was knackered from the sweeping.

* * *

*AKA: four grains.


	38. Fruity - Nanny Ogg

It was the First Annual Lancre Scumble Festival.

Nations across the multiverse have their equivalent. In Scotland whiskey is celebrated by drinking so much of it that it all tastes the same, which may defeat the point slightly, but it's tradition. In England and Germany beer is tasted by professionals first, then the masses get their hands on it and chuck it at each other in joy or insobriety*, whichever comes first. In France they rejoice in that year's champagne by daintily sipping it out of crystal tumblers whilst sports players wilfully waste bottles of it on podiums.

In Lancre, they celebrated scumble by _not tasting it at all_. For this was a festival of an alcoholic beverage which had more than 100% proof and very little circumstantial evidence, as it is easy to see when someone has overindulged on scumble. Their pallor is either green or turning grey and they have an aversion to strong liquor and/or apples for the rest of their days. Also, they tend to shy away from copper coins, although no one alive knows why this is.

Nanny Ogg moved down the ranks of hopeful scumble makers. Verence had finally given up on his policy of prohibition and more small-scale scumble makers had crawled out of the woodwork until they were nearly as good as Nanny at making it. So, in order to defeat her rivals, she had made a competition out of it. She was the judge.

It was hard to see where this could go wrong. Scumble was designed to be drunk only by professionals, and Nanny Ogg had a stomach made of iron to go with her thighs. She wouldn't keel over like some _amateurs_ (she spat the word inside her mind), and it would dissuade other people from trying to beat a witch. However, this now meant that no one was buying Oggish scumble, as they had a funny feeling about what it could contain. This was absurd, of course, though Nanny had been trying to put other people off competing by turning their scumble blue in the dead of night.

She had also been experimenting with fire spells in a room next to her experimental still. Scumble, she had discovered, was remarkably flammable. Must be all the apples.

Good scumble was designed to be full of flavour and sit on the tongue like purified fire, and in the stomach like very _fiery_ fire. It should have a faintly amber colour, and a test of pure scumble (as opposed to the cheap crap) was that it would melt through three solid inches of steel. When mixed with beer it creates a highly toxic cocktail called Fluff which, when applied to the silicon brains of trolls, can cause normal bodily functions such as walking, talking and thinking to stop completely. Nanny Ogg had tested every single sample of scumble on Lancre's resident troll, Big Jim Beef, who would be staying under the bridge for a little while as the sunlight was hurting his elbows.

It was a sunny day, but there were storm clouds on the horizon if Nanny Ogg had any say in the matter.

The crowds were milling around, buying sausages and cakes and avoiding on principle anything Granny Weatherwax had constructed, even the pickled onions. They all remembered…last year, and were certainly going to be keeping away from the bonfire just in case the woman tried anything funny again like being _nice_. The competition, which Nanny had hoped would stay formal as an event to worship the majesty of scumble, had turned into a carnival. Someone (here, she felt her blood boiling) had even set up a rival applejack competition**.

Finally, Nanny clapped and the field went silent. They knew what was coming. Even Granny Weatherwax grudgingly turned away from her pickled onions, which she had chosen to eat as no one else was. Of course, she wasn't paying.

'We're here for the Scumble Festival,' she shouted.

A couple of people who had already refreshed themselves on some of the other alcoholic beverages on offer cheered from the back, whilst those competing started to shake in fear of what was to come. Nanny Ogg could do that to people. Be wary of little old women who brew strong alcohol in their back gardens and know every word to the Hedgehog Song.

The crowd parted as she walked through them to where the thimbles*** of scumble were displayed, on a nondescript brown bench just in case it was knocked over. She picked up a thimble and examined it.

'Poor colour,' she said cuttingly. 'Too much fruit.'

She daintily sipped the scumble and spat it out again almost immediately, turning to face the luckless competitor.

'You should be usin' _mostly_ apples, Mr Thatcher,' she said in disgust. 'This is pretty much applejack.'

Mr Thatcher, who was a carter just to confuse people, shrank away from a woman half his height, aware that witches could do terrible things to people. 'But the secret ingre-'

Nanny Ogg raised her eyebrows. 'Yes?'

'The secret ingredient's…secret…'

'Everyone knows the secret ingredient to scumble!'

'Then what is it?' Mr Thatcher said hurriedly.

'You think I'd tell you, Thatcher? It's secret! Clue's in the name.'

Behind her, Esme Weatherwax narrowed her eyes at the lack of logic, but decided not to comment. Alcohol was strictly Gytha Ogg's occupation.

Nanny Ogg sniffed disparagingly and turned back to the bench, rubbing her hands together as she'd heard evil tyrants did. 'Right. Who's next?'

She lifted up a thimble and glared at it. 'Well, it's got a decent colour,' she admitted. 'Whose is this?'

A hand was tentatively raised, and she nodded. 'Well, we'll just have to see how it tastes.'

She took a sip and grimaced. 'Why do people never include the zinc? Look,' she waved it under his nose, 'take a sniff of it. You can't smell the zinc!'

'What?'

'The zinc, Bestiality, the zinc!'

The rant over, Nanny Ogg swooped like an avenging angel towards the next thimble and gulped it down. 'No rat's droppings! How could you?'

The crowd drew away slowly, making no sudden movements.

'And this one! Where's the onions? _Where are the onions_? And this one…oh.'

Nanny Ogg stopped dead, glaring at the sign next to that thimble of scumble, which looked as inconspicuous as any other. The crowd inched forward slightly, a military manoeuvre called the 'Has the enemy gone?' shudder.

Slowly, Nanny turned round. Her usually ruddy face had turned white.

She held up the card accusatorily and moved towards the centre of the crowd.

'Shirley Ogg,' she said, in tones of molten lava.

Shirl Ogg, hiding behind some of the bigger Ogg siblings, started to shake.

Nanny Ogg's arm darted out and grabbed her, pulling her into the centre of the field. 'This yours?'

Shirley could only nod in terror.

'You were at the front of the pictures,' Nanny said sadly. 'You bought me that box which plays the lead tune from _Ich bin ein Rattarsedschwein_ when you went to Uberwald. I loves that box. I bought a glass case just for it.'

Shirl, who had actually bought the glass case, found her defence slipping away from her. ''m sorry, Ma.'

'You let me take an iconograph of you when the little man came round and you _paid_. Didn't try any funny tricks where I should've paid for askin' to take the iconograph.'

''m sorry, Ma.'

The crowd were touched by the spectacle of the favourite daughter falling from grace in such a spectacular fashion. This was street entertainment in its purest form; everyone was aware of who was in favour in the Ogg household. They rarely had green smoke coming out of their chimneys, for a start.

'And now you do this?'

''m sorry, Ma. I wanted to keep the family tradition.'

'You _know_ it goes to the eldest. Has been so for ages.'

'But the eldest is Shawn, Ma, an' he's so busy up at the castle.'

'Don't you say that about your brother!'

'But it's true, Ma.'

Nanny Ogg simply turned away, looking disappointed. 'Tryin' to defeat your own mother.'

'I wasn't going to beat you!'

'This is good scumble!' Nanny yelled, then clapped a hand over her mouth. 'Oh shit.'

'Is it?' The fires of hope were rising in Shirl's eyes.

'Not as good as mine, girl. But that's just made it even worse.'

The metaphorical waters of Nanny Ogg's words were sloshed over her luckless daughter, who returned sadly to her place behind the other Ogg siblings, who tentatively patted her on the shoulder until Nanny glared at them.

Then, her bright mood was restored. Nanny Ogg could be surprisingly capricious at times. 'Who's next?'

'I think it's the tea now, Gytha,' Granny Weatherwax said from behind her.

'Huh?'

'I said it's the tea now, Gytha. Maybe even the scones. Let everyone have a few minutes to decide whether they really want to compete.'

Behind her, the crowd crept forward and grabbed their thimblefuls of scumble. As it fell onto the floor the grass hissed.

'Oh…right. Well.'

'Come on, Gytha.'

The two witches moved over to one corner of the field.

'You do get very defensive about scumble, Gytha,' Esme said reproachfully.

'It's my recipe!'

'But everyone knows it, Gytha.'

'It's the best kept secret in town!'

As they started to move away the soles of Nanny Ogg's boots corroded the grass underneath them.

'Esme…'

'Yes, Gytha?'

'You know that trick you can do with fire?'

Granny Weatherwax's mouth set into a firm line. 'No, Gytha.'

'But please. It's really organic. You should be able to get loads of fire from that.'

'I said no, Gytha.'

'It's properly flammable an' all. Honest, I tried it at home.'

'Then why don't you do it?'

'They'll be more scared if it's you.'

Granny Weatherwax considered this, and was pleased by it. Still, not pleased enough to explode alcohol all over her fellow villagers, for whom that sort of thing tended to create a grudge.

'No, Gytha.'

Nanny wrinkled her nose. 'Damn.'

* * *

*Rarely are these two the same thing.

**Applejack is made by putting apple juice outside during the winter and removing the ice until what is left is a concentrated liqueur made purely from apples. It can blow most people's heads off, but Nanny preferred it in pints.

***Not metal

* * *

It was amazing, after that, the number of scumble distillers which suddenly went out of business, finding that it wasn't profitable to go against a witch. Shirl Ogg, on her next visit to Uberwald, bought her mother a dwarfish tankard which played the lead song of _Bloodaxe and Ironhammer_, all seven weeks of it, and moved up three spaces in the Oggish hierarchy of furniture, finally reaching the sitting room.

Nanny Ogg decided to increase the size of her still as less scumble was being created in the village, for reasons unknown to her. She also sent the recipe to a friend in Ankh-Morpork, and within a week the Watch had raided the Patrician's Palace and demanded that Leonard of Quirm stop creating Fluff in his spare time, as that was strictly a Watch hobby or weapon when needed. The Patrician raised his eyebrows and ordered that, in compensation for frightening the life out of his resident inventor, each member of the Watch contributed a tube of paint. Sir Samuel Vimes accepted on the grounds that the recipe would never make its way into the public stream of the city.

Oh, and Granny Weatherwax, in the shed behind the goats, started building her own distillery. Nanny Ogg wasn't any good without a bit of competition.

The idea of another Annual Lancre Scumble Festival was never raised again.


	39. Half Life - King Ironfoundersson

**Seeing as I'm now at 2000+ words per chapter, they may be being posted less regularly. At worst I'll try to post one up every couple of days, but I'll try and keep up with the one chapter a day for as long as I can**

**Enjoy :)**

* * *

King Ironfoundersson surveyed the makeshift dwarf hospital which he had set up in one of the now vacant mines, and sighed.

Five dwarfs in the past week had started displaying symptoms of flu - weakness, shivering, sickness - but they all mined in the same tunnel and all came down with the sickness suddenly, and all at the same time.

Dwarfs were usually healthy creatures; living in an environment where most of the air came in through filters meant that it was rare that any pathogen came into contact with the dwarfs, and if they did come down with anything the king, under advice from Carrot, had set up this hospital so that they could be isolated and not let it spread. It had worked so far.

It didn't make sense, Ironfoundersson thought as he walked back to the central hall. Five dwarfs, one mine, all had the same symptoms but it wasn't spreading anywhere. It could be that they had unearthed some poisonous gas, but surely it would have spread?

* * *

'Message for you, sir,' one of the dwarfs called out. 'From Carrot.'

The King took it from him and scanned the page, wincing at some of the punctuation. It read:

_Dear, dad we were sory to here about, the illness. Have you isolated the, mine yet or called the Witches in because thier: medicinie is Famus? Angua said you should block up the mine with huge bloody great, steel doors which don't work but, I think she is still bitter about when we went down the Treacle St mine and fainted so I would, not take this to Heart. _

_Your loving son, adopted_

_Carrot_

Ironfoundersson sighed and pocketed the message. There had been a slight change in the patients, but that might just have been a reaction to Mistress Weatherwax's medicine and the wish never to have to taste it again. But three more dwarfs had fallen ill after working in the same mine, so it had been sealed off.

Something was being produced by that mine, but it wasn't a gas, it wasn't a liquid or they would have noticed, and likewise with solid.

Could it be the mine?

You heard stories about cursed mines, but Ironfoundersson had never believed in them. No, it was something else.

Could it be the stone?

The king stormed up to one of the younger dwarfs and tapped him on the shoulder. 'I want a sample of the mine.'

'The one that's been locked up?'

'Yes. And then seal it and bring it to me, alright?'

'Yes, sir. How big a sample?'

'Small enough to go in the post.'

The king had contacts in Ankh-Morpork, enough to know that if you wanted anything solving you should send it to the Alchemists. Several of his dwarfs had gone there in the hope of creating gold, only to find that the Alchemists weren't very good at that but were surprisingly adept at surviving explosions. It was the perfect job for a dwarf, especially one who had seen enough blasts to win the game of Hunt The Other Kidney.

The Alchemists had all sorts of tests to determine which rock was which and which person the kidney belonged to. The rock didn't look different to any other rock that Ironfoundersson had seen, but he was sure that a poisonous rock would be the most prosaic looking rock in the mine, just to trick people.

The dwarf hurried over with a small metal box, which he passed to the king. Ironfoundersson nodded and began to write.

* * *

'We've had a bit of an odd request,' Headcruncher said at the next Alchemists' Guild meeting, which was taking place at the president's house due to the Guild lying in pieces around them.

'From who?'

'The king of one of the Copperhead mines. He's included a sample of stone and wants us to test it for poison.'

'Does he specify for what?'

'No. Just anything, I guess.'

The president sighed. 'Give it to one of the students to deal with it. We've got far more pressing matters to deal with.'

Headcruncher paused. 'This dwarf is Captain Carrot's father.'

The demeanour of the president changed completely, and Headcruncher was sure that he saw him smile. 'Why didn't you say?'

'Because-' _Because it really shouldn't make that much of a difference._

The president took hold of the metal box, which had been left open. 'I'll take charge of it myself, then. We wouldn't want to go upsetting Cap- the Watch.'

Headcruncher nodded.

Three days later the President fell sick with what looked like the flu.

* * *

There was only one thing for it.

Headcruncher knew of one man who could solve any problem that the Alchemists couldn't deal with. This man existed in a realm of fantasy where inspiration turned everything he saw into a piece of artwork, or an opportunity to make the world a better place*, his brain buzzed from overexcited electrics and the pages of his books, written backwards, were illustrated with miniatures of butterflies and the intricacy of the human eye and a machine to bomb enemy countries with flaming sulphur.

The man was dangerous and incredible. The problem with dangerous men was that rulers had far more use for them than ordinary men, as they came up with inventions Machiavellian tyrants wouldn't dream about. Normal men had far too little imagination and far too much inquisitiveness. So, if Headcruncher was a betting man, he would place money on the Patrician having some sort of contact with this man.

He sat down and wrote to Lord Vetinari, included the box and sent it off via the postman with a thumping heart.

* * *

*Usually by means of explosions. Fireballs are optional, but they do have considerable style.

* * *

Lord Vetinari opened the letter carefully, always wary of anything which came from the Alchemists' Guild and had to be locked up in a metal container.

Eventually, after reading it, he went over to the wall and leaned against the wood panelling, which shifted underneath his fingers. A door swung open and Vetinari paused until the last of the fireworks had exploded.

He made his way carefully down the corridor, tapping the wall occasionally and making sure not to step on any of the flagstones which were not good stones to step on on a Monday. As he put his key in the lock of Leonard's door and stepped over the hook which slid towards his feet, a crowd of birds flapped over his head.

The door opened.

'Oh, I am sorry, my lord. One of the ravens has been ill.'

Vetinari stepped into the room carefully. 'Birds, Leonard?'

'Oh, yes. Most people have an underlying fear of anything which can fly.'

This prompted Vetinari to think about buying a pair of wings, but he quashed the wish. 'I need you to take a look at this. It's from the Alchemists.'

Leonard took the little box and placed it on a desk. 'I will deal with it soon. But first can I show you this-'

'It is urgent, Leonard.'

Leonard detected the tone of the Patrician's voice and hesitated. 'Right. I will deal with it now.'

Vetinari smiled brightly. 'Excellent.'

* * *

Leonard absentmindedly put the metal box on the table next to his prototype reson detector, ready to show the Patrician. Although it wasn't complete it was still as beautiful and intricate as any of his finished articles; Leonard took pride in his inventions' appearances.

It beeped.

Leonard turned round and watched it as the meter emitted a steady stream of clicks. He leaned closer.

'Oh.'

Vetinari walked quickly down the corridor and put a hat on as the birds flew over him.

'Leonard?'

'My lord.' Leonard smiled and pointed to the metal box. 'I think I've figured out the problem.'

He placed it in front of the reson meter, which started clicking again.

'That shouldn't be happening,' he said.

'But what does it mean?'

'The rock is emitting sideways resons which, when exposed to people, can affect normal body functions. This could create symptoms of flu, like you said.'

'I see.' Vetinari looked at the box again. 'And the shield isn't working?'

'No, my lord.'

'Well, then, we must get rid of it.'

* * *

King Ironfoundersson was poring over the latest reports of the patients. Some of them, the ones who were working down the far end of the mine, had started to bleed from orifices, whilst all of them were suffering from hair loss. It was the hair loss that he was worried about - to a dwarf his beard was his livelihood.

'We've received a clacks from the Patrician.'

Ironfoundersson span round and stared at the dwarf. 'From _who_?'

'The Patrician of Ankh-Morpork. It's about the sample of rock.'

'I sent that to the Alchemists.'

The dwarf shrugged. 'I guess it made its way to the Patrician. Most things do after a while.'

'You worked in Ankh-Morpork for a while, didn't you?'

'Yes, sir. For one of the mines under Treacle Street.'

'And how common is it to receive anything from the Patrician?'

'Oh, very uncommon, sir. He occasionally comes out but mostly he just deals with the politics.'

Ironfoundersson grinned bitterly and started to feel some sympathy for the Patrician. 'So, what's he saying?'

'He says…well, you'd better read it.'

He picked up the letter.

_Dear King Ironfoundersson,_

_I was very sorry to hear about the sickness in your mine, so as a matter of urgency I passed the sample over to the most highly qualified Alchemist, who is in my employment. After analysing the sample he had concluded that your workers are suffering from mild cases of Reson Sickness, where sideways resons penetrate the skin and cause damage to the internal systems._

_As far as he knows, there is no treatment for this sort of poisoning, but you can alleviate the symptoms with the usual methods of treating them. Your patients will undoubtedly have a shorter life span, but with good care can still have a good quality of life and work limited hours in the mines. He recommends sealing the tunnel off with lead, as this will prevent the resons absconding._

_According to him, this illness has never been encountered before. He is fatally interested in the subject, so would enjoy a visit to the mine in question in order to carry out experiments as a repayment for his assistance in the matter. Please reply with possible dates for him to visit._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Havelock Vetinari (Patrician of Ankh-Morpork)_

He set the letter down.

'So there's no cure.'

'It doesn't seem so.'

Ironfoundersson sighed, and folded the letter up. 'We'd better break the news.'

* * *

The funerals were the week afterwards.

* * *

Vetinari and Leonard stood at the back of the Unreal Estate and watched the fluorescent pink fog float out from underneath the sign saying 'Caution. Magical Waste.'

'Are you sure that this is going to be safe, my lord?'

'Yes.'

Vetinari narrowed his eyes and chucked the sample over the wall into the magical mayhem. It landed with an oddly organic squelch and a cloud of glitter.

As they walked away Leonard seemed puzzled. 'Why did you want to get rid of it?'

'Because it was dangerous.'

'We could have sealed it, my lord.'

'Yes, Leonard, but it is not the stone itself which is dangerous. Imagine if people could get hold of it and use it to poison people. There's no test, there's no evidence once you get rid of the stone, but people are dying and you don't know why. And you haven't even examined sideways resons properly, so you've got no idea what they could do if exposed to the outside world.'

'Well, sir, with the energy inside them the thaum could be split, releasing huge amounts of energy and sideways resons.'

Vetinari pursed his lips and thought about the possibilities. 'And that, Leonard, is why I don't want anyone knowing about this.'

_No one's going to be blowing up my city without a permit,_ he thought.


	40. Comedy of Errors - Death

**Blame the idea for this fic on my mother - I said to her 'Comedy of Errors', she said Shakespeare and I was struck by the need to write Macbeth with Death's involvement (it would be so much more entertaining to study, for a start)**

**So, enjoy :)**

* * *

_'When shall we three meet again?'_

_There was an awkward pause._

_'Well, I can do next Tuesday.'_

* * *

The spirit of the Thane of Cawdor was gently severed from its corpse, now headless, and floated up towards the skeletal figure standing in front of him wearing a bored expression.

'For shame, for shame,' it wept, waving his hands theatrically around. No one ever thought, before these famous playwrights, that the Scottish were prone to dramatic gestures and soliloquies.

PARDON?

'I remained loyal to our dearest monarch until the last second, the last _second_, I tell you!' the Thane proclaimed.

YOU _WERE_ A TRAITOR.

'My duty, dear fellow, was always to our noble king.'

Death shook his head, wondering if people had a compulsion to put adjectives in front of the word 'king'. It would be a lot easier if they just stuck with the noun. He was also glad that he hadn't put Susan on the case; he knew what she was like with literature in general. It made the world too perfect, she said. Real people didn't go around finding sharp swords and crowns all over the place.

'I pleaded his clemency! But, for shame, he did not listen to thy humble servant who commiteth a grave mistake. A mistake! Oh, but it has cost me dearly.'

RIGHT. Death slipped his scythe back into its holder, bored with this business now. His work here was done. ENJOY THE AFTERLIFE.

The thane ignored him. 'I valiantly fought for Duncan's honour, pure at heart and mind and-'

Death rolled his eyes, albeit with difficulty, and climbed onto Binky's saddle. They galloped away into the twilight, leaving behind the headless thane of Cawdor who was wondering what he did now.

* * *

The spirit of Duncan, complete with a ghostly crown which contrasted nicely with his rather tatty nightdress, pointed down at the fleeing figure of Macbeth, adorned with his blood. An owl cried, but he took no notice of it.

'Oh, but my gentle Thane of Cawdor! My cousin, no less! I was a fool to ever bequeath him my trust.!

Death sighed. It was going to be a very long night, and he really couldn't be bothered to listen to all this 'thee' and 'thou' malarkey. In his mind, he cursed all playwrights.

'Killed by iron forged by my own fair hands. A gift, in fact, from my noble self!'

ACTUALLY, HE KEEPS THOSE IN THE DERELICT ROOM AT THE TOP OF THE TOWER, Death said helpfully. HE SAID THAT THEY WERE TOO FLIMSY FOR THIS SORT OF JOB. AND THE DAGGERS WERE STEEL.

King Duncan span round and pointed at Death. 'Be gone, foul fiend!' he screamed.

I THINK NOT.

'Thou ethereal spirit shall not seize my soul.'

THINK AGAIN, Death said cheerfully.

The spirit of Duncan paused. 'He really said they were too flimsy?'

'I'm afraid so.'

The king shook his head sadly. 'I knew I should have left it to the professionals,' he said sombrely. He looked down at himself and realised that, molecule by molecule, he was fading into the afterlife. His expression was one of someone who can't be dead, dying happens to other people, not him, they can all die but I am_ immortal_*, and he turned towards Death.

'The scoundrel.'

Death could only nod.

* * *

*It is amazing how often these people are wrong.

* * *

Death had a funny foreboding feeling that he would be spending a lot of time in Macbeth's castle, so he had set up a tent on the front lawn. Currently he was making smores and kept setting fire to the marshmallows.

There was a _bingley-beep_ and he glumly pulled the Dis-Organiser out of his robes.

YES?

'Three Ay Em!' the imp said cheerfully. 'Murder of Banquo on drizzly road near Forres! Must attend at once!'

Sighing, he pulled out a lifetimer. Banquo's sand was running out quite quickly now.

Damn. Just as he had got comfortable…

He reappeared on the drizzly road near Forres, wondering when humanity would get round to inventing the street name, and squinted into the distance to see the First, Second and Third Murderers running down it, discarding their weapons as they pulled the prone form of Banquo down it.

Slowly, as if he was clinging onto his body, the spirit of Banquo rose into the air.

HELLO, Death said in as friendly a tone as he could make it. Being dead could shock some people.

Banquo didn't appear to have heard him. 'Fly, Fleance, Fly!' he shouted into the distance.

I WOULD HAVE THOUGHT A SIMPLE 'RUN' WOULD HAVE CREATED MORE OF A RESPONSE.

Banquo turned to him. 'Oh. It's you.'

NO POETRY? Death asked dryly.

'I am a mere soldier, my…lord. Poetry, and oratory as a whole do not come to me with ease.'

YOU'D BE SURPRISED.

'Where did those men come from? They attacked me and my boy in the darkness, the road was, regretfully, poorly illuminated in this wretched night. Oh, my boy! My Fleance!'

OH, HE'LL BE FINE.

'Who would have ordered such a thing? To attack a humble soldier and his son as they are making their way home one night?'

YOU'VE GOT THREE GUESSES.

'Pardon?'

THREE GUESSES. WHO ORDERED THE THREE MURDERERS TO KILL YOU.

'There were three of them?'

_AH, WE'VE GOT RID OF THE POETRY_, Death thought. THE THIRD ONE WAS BEHIND YOU. HE WAS THE ONE WHO STABBED YOU.

'I wondered who that was,' Banquo said ponderously. After a while of being dead you stopped being angry at those who had killed you, instead thinking about the exact circumstance that you were killed in and how you were going to explain this one to the wife. It was the lack of hormones, Death thought.

GUESS.

'Um…Macduff? We've never been the best of companions, regardless of my wish for mutual harmony.

_DAMN IT, THE POETRY'S BACK. _ I AM AFRAID THAT YOU ARE WRONG.

'Our fair and noble king would not have ordered such a thing before his fateful demise, I am certain. But could he have had another face to his kindly soul?'

NOT ONE THAT I SAW, Death said carefully. AND YOU'RE WRONG AGAIN.

Banquo thought about it for a moment. 'I am afraid that you have beaten me, kind sir.'

IT WAS MACBETH.

The ghost didn't seem shocked. It was hard to, when you had no endocrine glands. 'Macbeth? Oh, the swine!'

THAT'S WHAT I'VE HEARD.

'My loyal friend, my Macbeth, he ordered to have me slain?'

IS THERE SOMETHING YOU HAVEN'T TOLD YOUR WIFE?

'Oh, Macbeth, Macbeth, how could you do this to me?' Banquo dropped to his knees, and Death sighed at the melodrama.

IT'S MUDDY, YOU KNOW.

'Oh, I have been a fool!'

THE MUD REMAINS IN THE AFTERLIFE, I'M AFRAID. I DON'T KNOW WHY.

'Macbeth, the deceitful traitor! And we were warned!'

Death rolled his eyes again. I'LL LEAVE YOU TO IT.

* * *

UM, HELLO? _HELLO_?

'Out, damned spot! Out, I say!'

HELLO? LADY MACBETH?

'Yet who would have thought the old man to have so much blood in him?' Lady Macbeth said distantly, walking forward, arms outstretched, doing a very passable impression of a zombie, which she wasn't. Not yet.

Death sighed, and disappeared. Not tonight.

He always got annoyed when quantum came into play. Lady Macbeth could have died, but she didn't, but because she could have he then had to be there, and he had just settled down to a very interesting book and propped his feet up. And then in a few weeks' time he might have to do it again, just because she dreamt about killing her husband and ending all this mayhem.

Damn that bloody quantum. Why can't physicists just let the world do what it wants?

* * *

It was a couple of weeks later. The future had been in contact with him and told him to set up camp near Dunsinane Castle, and to watch out for the trees. This, Death didn't understand, but he did it anyway. It didn't pay to argue with the future; gods knew what might happen.

It turned out Lady Macbeth's sleepwalking had been more severe than he had thought. It had eventually ended not in an awkward discussion with the maids, but instead a terminal case of death.

He regarded the splayed form of Lady Macbeth, lying on the gravel, and sighed as he tried to assemble the body parts. The Watch would need some more chalk.

The spirit of Lady Macbeth, looking considerably dishevelled and wearing only a torn nightdress (Death politely averted his eyes) stood up and glared at him.

'And what do you think you're doing here?' she asked, forgetting the poetry for now. She was getting a bit sick of talking in riddles and metaphors about snakes and flowers.

COLLECTING YOUR SPIRIT FOR THE AFTERLIFE. IT IS MY _JOB_.

'But I'm not-'

I WOULD TURN ROUND, IF I WERE YOU.

Lady Macbeth did so, and took a step backwards. 'Oh,' she said weakly. 'Did I really do that?'

I'M AFRAID SO. THIS DOES, OF COURSE, DAMN YOU TO HELL, WHICH I'VE ALWAYS FOUND A BIT UNFAIR.

She turned back to Death and gave him a Look. 'Well, then, my tortured soul will walk the world in torment.'

IT DOESN'T HAVE TO.

She narrowed her eyes. 'It can if it _wants_ to.'

LADY MACBETH, I'M AFRAID THAT YOU ARE DESTINED FOR HELL. He lifted up the hourglass and showed her. YES, HELL. YOU DO NOT HAVE A CHOICE IN THE MATTER.

'Who does, then?'

I PRESUME THE GODS, THOUGH I'VE NEVER FELT THE NEED TO ASK.

Lady Macbeth drew her spiritual self up. 'Then I demand to speak to them.'

Death sighed. This was going to be a tricky one.'

* * *

Death looked sadly at the random soldier who was apparently important, though not, evidently, to the playwright.

'I never saw that arrow coming,' he said in surprise.

* * *

Death watched the sword fight in interest, pointing out good places for Macbeth to stab. Just for once he would love it if the villain lived.

Still, the author obviously had a different idea. Macbeth floated up from his body, rubbing his neck.

'Ouch,' he said.

THAT'S WHAT A FIGHT TO THE DEATH COSTS YOU, Death said reproachfully.

'But the effort that I put in! Was it all for nothing? Did it have to end like it began, with the fallen tyrant lying on the ground?'

Death flicked through a couple of pages of the book that he was carrying. IT SEEMS SO.

'The gods are fickle creatures. One moment, the Lord himself is in my favour and my plans, approved by Him, no less, and then their capricious souls turn on me and damn me to hell.'

Death examined the hourglass. I'M AFRAID, MACBETH, THAT YOU ARE DESTINED FOR PURGATORY.

'I beg your pardon?'

PURGATORY, IT SAYS HERE. APPARENTLY BECAUSE YOU WERE COERCED BY YOUR WIFE AND THE WITCHES, WHO THE GODS _REALLY_ DON'T LIKE, THEY'RE GRANTING YOU SOME LENIENCY.

'So I am forced to spend my days wandering blindly through the darkness with no respite?'

WELL, I'VE HEARD THAT HELL'S QUITE…WARM. THERE'S BRIMSTONE INVOLVED, OF COURSE, AND THE SMELL CAN GET A BIT PUNGENT.

'To be burned, or not to be burned?'

THAT'S THE WRONG PLAY, Death said helpfully.

'What's my line, then?'

AT THE MOMENT YOU'RE SILENT. LOTS OF PEOPLE ARE DANCING DOWN THERE, THOUGH.

'Oh. How _dare_ they profiteth from my valiant death? Do they have no respect for their fallen king, who sacrificed everything, I say _everything_, for the crown?'

Death didn't see much in Macbeth's death which could be called valiant. There was an awful lot of blood.

All of a sudden, there was a sensation that he was being covered in thick fabric which had a distinctly musty smell to it. He moved away from the curtain and a hundred people turned to look at him.

Of course, he said to himself. They can see me. They've been expecting death.

UM, HELLO?

The people looked at him in confusion. The look was right, but they thought the actor had got the words a bit confused. They had to admit that the make-up was fantastic.

Death cleared his throat. JUSTICE HAS BEEN SERVED, he proclaimed.

The people stood up and started clapping, and the curtain finally fell.


	41. Tragedy - Carrot

The coach rattled its way down the winding mud track through the lower Ramtops, just before you got to where the ground was nearly vertical. The horses didn't like it, not knowing where they were standing.

It had been travelling from Uberwald on holiday - the people in the coach were the sort who liked holidaying in extreme places to impress the neighbours - and, surprisingly, it had been a calm journey.

There was a brief call from the man in the coach before it came to a halt about a mile from Copperhead.

A voice emanated from the carriage, sounding slightly uncertain as if it really didn't want an answer. 'Is anyone there?'

It was dark, the moonlight reflected off the metal hubcaps of the wheels, and the man was filled with a dreadful foreboding feeling that all was not well. It was something in the darkness, it was like thick velvet draping over him, laden with physics.

He was roughly shouldered to one side by his wife who, it was said, had the blood of kings in her veins, and it certainly showed. He didn't think he had ever seen a woman drawn up so nobly.

'Come on, out with you!' she yelled. The man sighed, feeling that this was not how royalty, even if it was slightly watered down over the years, should behave.

She turned to him. 'You're just overreacting, dear. There's no one there.'

He shrugged. 'I thought I heard something.'

'Come on in. We need to get back to the city soon.'

He climbed back into the coach and nodded to the driver to start going again. With a rumble, the horses got back into the rhythm of things and the coach moved on.

Inside, the man turned to the tiny cot which had been locked into a corner with bungee cords, his wife being a practical sort of person who could find items like bungee cords _everywhere_. Inside it, somewhere amongst the blankets, was a baby, peacefully awake and staring at the ceiling with an expression of contemplativeness.

It gurgled and smiled up at him, blue eyes shining, and for a moment the man felt special. It was odd; every time he was around the six week old it felt like he was more than himself, like he had some value.

His wife had dismissed this notion as being ridiculous.

'How is he?'

He turned back to his wife. 'He's fine. Did you have ginger hair in your family?'

'I don't think so.'

'Peculiar.' The man looked down at the baby again, who was now asleep with his thumb in his mouth. 'Poor lad, he's going to be a Carrot all his life.'

The coach rattled onwards.

* * *

About half a mile away from Copperhead (coaches don't drive fast) the man called out and the coach stopped again.

'You're being paranoid,' his wife told him, sitting obstinately on the seat which his sword was stored under. She didn't know he had it, even if he had taken it from their sitting room before they set off.

'I'm just checking.'

He stepped out into the freezing cold midnight air and shuddered. Squinting around, he caught sight of a faint glimpse of a flame as if a cigar was being lit.

'Hello?' he called.

There was no response. There never is.

'Who's there?'

The man stepped forward and felt an arrow being pressed against his neck.

'You _really_ don't want to call for help,' the darkness whispered into his ear. Apart from the crossbow bolt and the voice there was no sensation of anyone being there.

'Who are you?'

'That's irrelevant. I'm the man holding the crossbow to your neck, that's all you need to know.' The arrow shifted slightly and the man realised that the crossbow holder had a bad leg, one that couldn't support him, and saw his advantage.

He span round to kick him and was stopped by the prick of a dagger through his clothes.

'I really wouldn't go there,' the crossbow holder, who still had an arrow to his neck, advised him. Casually, the cigar was raised and the end flamed cherry red.

'Who _are_ you?'

The darkness sighed and seemed to grow closer as shadows stepped forward. 'Listen, mate, we don't tell anyone who we are. It's bad for business, see, knowing people's names, does nothing for the people who'd like to call themselves vigilantes around here. Now just hand over the money and no one's going to get hurt.'

It was a clichéd line, but the man found himself trembling, but told himself it was just the cold. 'I don't have any money on me.'

'You'd be amazed how rarely people admit to having money on their coaches.'

'But it's true!'

'Yeah, right. Who travels without money?'

The man began to babble. 'Look, I just want to get home, my wife and my baby, I have a baby, we just want to get back, back to the city, you'll let us go, we're no harm, honestly-'

'Oh, shut up,' the darkness sighed. The knife was pressed slightly harder into his stomach. 'Now, give us all your money. Or your valuables, we're not picky.'

'I don't have any!'

'We were told that the heir to the throne of Ankh-Morpork was on this coach. You don't honestly expect me to believe that you haven't got a bob or two there.'

'I don't!'

The darkness lost patience and pushed the dagger straight through him, then pulled it straight out again with a practiced air as the man collapsed, wheezing. He grabbed his stomach and felt the blood pulsing out between his fingers, staining the ground. He tried to yell out, but no words came.

Meanwhile the man with the crossbow, who still had a crossbow much to the man's avail, was walking towards the coach. 'Walk out with your hands up!' he yelled, striking a match.

His wife walked out and glared haughtily at the bandit. 'Yes?'

'Give us all your money!'

'We don't have any on us,' she said calmly, although there was a slight tremor in her voice which she disguised well.

'Right, I've had enough,' the bandit stated, pushing her roughly aside and entering the coach. 'Where is it?'

'What have you done with my husband?'

'Who says we've done anything?'

'_What have you done with him_?' she hissed, grabbing the man by the collar and pulling him away from the strongbox viciously, slamming him against the wall.

'So you have got something,' he mocked her, nonchalantly stabbing her as if it didn't matter to him. Her eyes widened as she felt the blade pass through her, so different from the cold prick that had been resting against her ribs which she hadn't noticed, too busy trying to divert him. He simply raised his eyebrows as she dropped to the floor, still trying to reach towards that strongbox. He punched into it, wincing as the thin wood protested for a moment, and reached out a hand, confident that he would feel the cold gleam of coins under his probing fingers.

There was nothing in it.

He span round and kicked the prone form in his frustration. 'Light it up!' he screamed out of the window to the shadows hidden in the trees, waiting, watching the chaos. Obediently, they stepped forward, matches flaring in the choking darkness.

He climbed out, not bothering to look for any more treasure or money. She had tricked him, and he didn't care about the money. He had money. He wanted the thrill and she had taken that.

He turned away as the coach burst into flames and the horses screamed as the first blade of heat came into contact with their coat, singing the hair and causing them to bolt. Flames streamed through the air as they finally succumbed, collapsing onto the floor and turning the coach over with it until the fire crossed the ground, licking at the bandits as they fled from the scene. The driver had fled into the forest long before; no doubt he would be being dealt with. The husband was finally silent, drained of blood from the casual gash.

Behind him, hidden in the bushes just far away enough from the flaming vehicle to not be hurt, lay a baby, looking for all the world like just another pile of blankets discarded by travellers.

* * *

The dwarfs arrived ten minutes later, dousing the still smouldering vehicle with water from the lakes near the mines. By the time that the king arrived they were searching it for any survivors, doubting that they would find any.

'Bandits?' he asked in guttural Dwarfish.

'Seems so.'

He picked his way over the charcoal and looked around the back of the coach, knowing that it was normal for people under siege to chuck anything valuable out of the back. Several coaches had been attacked in the last month or so and the dwarfs were becoming used to the regular job of combing over the remains diligently. Some were even starting to specialise in it.

Something caught his eye and he called someone over before creeping into the undergrowth. To him, it was almost the overgrowth, and scratched his head as he climbed through the bracken.

'There's something here,' he called. 'Bring me that torch.'

His hands touched brambles, leaves and then the soft cotton of a baby's blanket, caught on some of the thorns. He grabbed hold of it and raised it into the light.

'I think it's a baby,' he said uncertainly.

'What, a human?'

'Seems to be.' He pulled aside the blanket and the light from the torches was reflected from the baby's bright blue eyes. For some reason, he felt this baby was…special.

'We've found a sword,' another dwarf said from behind.

'Don't put it near the baby!' the king shouted, holding it closer.

The dwarf looked confused, knowing that the king had no children, then decided not to comment. 'It looks…special.'

'How?'

'Well, it's good steel. Really good steel, must have been made hundreds of years ago. Around the time of the last-'

'King?' the king asked, fearing the worst.

'How did you know that?'

'A lucky guess. We find a baby in the forest next to a burning carriage with a sword in it. It's destiny or something like that.'

'So you believe in this?'

The king hadn't got to where he was now by not displaying some signs of scepticism. 'Of course not. It's coincidence, Ironhammer.'

'But still…'

'The kings of Ankh-Morpork died out years ago. There's no such thing as royal blood anymore.'

* * *

Seventeen years later, Carrot sat at his desk in the Watch House and finally opened up the satchel that he had taken from Cruces. The Watch House, at three in the afternoon, was silent. Angua was asleep in the bed beside him, but he moved quietly so he wouldn't wake her.

He gently opened the first page, trying to forget the front cover which proclaimed 'King Carrot I', and started reading.

Half an hour later - dwarfs weren't known for their literary endeavour - he finally turned over the last page and stared blankly at the booklet in front of him.

Well, d'Eath had certainly done his research. It was all in there; how he had been rescued from the burning wreckage of a coach a mile away from Copperhead, how all they had ever found was an amazingly sharp sword lying in the charcoal, some bit about a ring which he hadn't heard about before, but presumed that d'Eath had just dug around a bit. He had even interviewed his parents who had tried to turn him away as politely as they could without seeming insulting, but not before he had gathered that there had been suspicions all along about Carrot's parentage.

It all fitted.

And Carrot hated it.

People shouldn't follow anyone because they just had a crown on their head. They should follow them because they trust them, or because they're an inspirational leader who's doing the best for their city or their country. Their headdress shouldn't matter.

He didn't want to be a king. He was opposed to being called sir not just because Mister Vimes, he knew, objected to it, but because he didn't feel that he deserved it. The people just seemed to follow him for some reason.

But he could use it. He could make them do good, he could just be a copper who was good with people.

For some reason, though, he had a feeling that destiny was just going to get in the way.


	42. Hope Is The Thing With Feathers - Sybil

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* * *

Vimes span round, knocking one of the attackers out with a sharp punch to the man's forehead. Behind him, Carrot took out another one with his scabbard, and yelled at him to move out of the way.

Vimes moved too late.

The sharp pain started to blossom from his lower back, where the attacker had managed to get the sword up underneath the breastplate. Through the miasma of pain, Vimes gave him an internal nod of approval, having never seen anyone do that before.

The rest of Vimes was screaming at the attacker to take the bloody sword out of his bloody back.

He toppled onto the floor, and his eyes caught the interesting bit of carpet.

It was peculiar how the greens and oranges, from far away, looked like some old, brown, tattered flooring, but now he was closer to it he could see the intricate spirals as the waves of colour intermixed and shades of green turned darker as they reached his elbow. A tiny bit of his brain was elbowing the rest of it and trying to tell Vimes that it was because he was _bleeding_ all over the beautiful carpet, and should really stop focusing on the goddamn carpet and start calling for help, but the rest of Vimes was staring at the pretty patterns.

Dimly, he could hear Carrot talking in a consoling way to the men with very sharp swords and very heavy clubs, but then that went silent as well. The whole _room_ went silent as a flash of blonde fur passed in front of him, and then all hell broke loose as the men fled and Angua howled.

Vimes caught sight of Sergeant Angua trying to lift Carrot out of the corner of his eye, and whimpered slightly once his brain had forgotten all about the pretty patterns. Then she noticed him, and shouted for someone else to come and help.

'It's alright, sir,' she muttered as she pulled his breastplate over his head, and Vimes was entranced by the shiny metal as it passed before his eyes. He saw, as if it was vitally important, the faint purple of Angua's fingernails as she tried to pat his face to make sure that he was awake, and concentrated hard on the tiny creases on her fingers as if they would somehow pull him back.

They didn't. He dropped into darkness.

* * *

Sybil stopped pacing around the room for long enough to turn round and glare at the person who had opened the door. Seeing as this was a werewolf, it probably wasn't the best idea, but Angua seemed unperturbed.

'We've found him,' she said, gesturing for Sybil to sit down. She simply raised her eyebrows at the girl.

'Go on.'

Angua was twisting her hands around nervously. 'He was…he's been stabbed. Not fatally,' she added quickly, as Sybil opened her mouth, 'but it's serious. I only just got to him in time.'

'Where was he stabbed?'

'Through the back, ironically. Didn't realise that there was another attacker behind him.'

'_Sam_ didn't realise that there was someone else there?'

'It was sort of chaotic, and he couldn't be everywhere at once.' Angua grinned ruefully. 'He's always thought of that as a character flaw. But he's breathing and Igor's seeing what he can do.'

'Can I see him?'

'Igor doesn't like anyone else to go in when he's doing a surgery apart from Cheery. It's his surgery, not mine.'

'Surely it's technically Sam's surgery?'

'_Technically_ it's the Patrician's surgery, but Igor gets very defensive.'

'Can I come down to the Watch House?'

'Sure. Are you sure you're okay to…you know?'

'Angua, I'm pregnant, not a ticking time bomb. And it's only been six months, and to be quite honest I've not got much bigger.'

The girl smiled faintly. 'Sorry. Not great with the whole pregnancy and babies thing. You want Carrot for that.'

'Where is Carrot?'

'He's…he's in the hospital too. Someone came up behind him with a club, but he should be okay. Igor's put him in sleepy land, apparently.'

Sybil paused, looking at Angua. She seemed relatively calm, though you never could tell with her. It was all dead calm, like the ocean on a still day, until the wave broke, she flipped and started screaming at you, an experience Sybil didn't want to repeat. 'You don't seem that concerned.'

'You get used to it. He's seen me dead once and didn't freak out, so I'll do the same thing for him. Anyway, he was being a bloody idiot and trying to _reason_ with them.' Angua shrugged and turned on her heels. 'The Yard?'

'Sure.'

* * *

This was a different room, but Sybil was still pacing up and down it.

'Sybil, sit down,' Angua said wearily from behind her. 'He's stable, he's breathing, he's currently feeling nothing because he's unconscious. What more do you want?'

'For him to not have been stabbed!'

'If I had a dollar for every time that Mister Vimes could have been stabbed, I'd be able to buy a fairly large boat, sail away and never have to see this godsdamn city again. This was his unlucky day.'

Sybil turned round, glared at her and started pacing again.

This house was too familiar, that's what it was. She had grown up in here, the floor that she was currently wearing away used to be the library where she had first discovered _The History of Dragyons _and spent the next month collecting her pocket money until she could buy her first swamp dragon. She could still see the faint scorch marks that it had made around the room as it exploded.

Now, this room was a canteen, and occasionally a watchman would enter the room hoping for a relaxing cup of tea only to be faced with the highly strung missus of the Commander and Sergeant Angua, who was surviving by means of Klatchian Coffee and had a very _pointed_ glare.

'He'll be okay, won't he?' Sybil asked, staring out of the window at the city which was draped in the heavy blankets of grey fog coming off the river. In front of her, the Opera House wore a cape of white.

Then she realised that she was personifying the fog. Something really was wrong; Sybil was a naturally practical person who, whilst enjoying a book on the odd occasion, wouldn't touch literature with a barge pole.

'Igor's a good surgeon,' Angua replied uncertainly.

'So he'll be okay.'

'I don't know. He was stabbed, he's been mended, it's up to the gods now. But they've usually been pretty kind to him.'

'Thargeant?' Igor called.

Angua glanced at Sybil, then hurried over to the door to where Igor was standing and trying to ignore the smell of blood that emanated from him. 'Yes?'

'Captain Carrot ith awake if you want to thee him.'

'How about Mister Vimes?'

Igor shrugged, making his shoulders level for a brief second. 'He ith thtill athleep, I'm afraid. But I've done what I can, and as thtabth go it avoided motht of the main organth. He thhould be fine.'

'Should be fine?' Sybil asked quickly. 'So he'll be okay?'

'Probably.'

It wasn't a certainly, but at that point Sybil didn't really care. It was more than likely that Sam would come back to her and then, maybe, he'd stop all this malarkey with getting stabbed and the like. Or he wouldn't.

But if he was alive she was fine.

Sybil became aware that Angua was watching her. 'You can go and see Carrot,' she told her. 'I'll be fine.'

Angua gave a discrete nod to Igor, who moved over to the side of the room and pretended to get a drink. Only after she knew that there was someone else in the room did she finally walk down the stairs to Carrot.

He was sitting up in bed and smiling at her, and the bandages around his head had slipped comically until they were hanging over his eye. She exhaled, and gave a little laugh.

'You know, I was worried about you there.'

He held out his arms and she walked over to him. As she sat down on the bed he put his arms around her waist.

'Sorry,' he whispered.

'Carrot, I've told you that there's no place for the Marquis of Fantailler when someone's running at you with a club. You've been to see his grave.'

'I wasn't using the Marquis's rules,' he said, affronted. 'I stabbed one of them.'

She sighed. 'Good for you.'

'Hey, don't be annoyed.' He looked up at her, worried. 'I was trying to solve things democratically.'

'And I've told you that doesn't work,' Vimes said from the bed next to him. He rolled over stiffly and faced them. 'Good to see you, sergeant, captain. Now, can someone tell me where my wife is?'

Angua slid off the bed and walked over to the door. 'I'll fetch her.'

'Thank you very much. And get me a cigar.'

'Yes, sir.'

'And a coffee.'

'Are you sure? You know what it does to you?'

'Sergeant, I happen to notice that you've spilt Klatchian coffee down your shirt, and you know what it does to you. And don't lie and tell me it's the ordinary stuff, because I can tell the real stuff from that watery crap from-'

'Yes, sir,' Angua said quickly, disappearing up the stairs.

'And stir it with a spoon!' he shouted after her. 'Although it might be quite difficult for you not too,' he mused.

'What might?' Carrot asked, perplexed.

'Never you mind.' Another thought struck him. 'And don't gob in it!' he shouted after her.

* * *

Sybil stood up as Angua walked through the door, looking annoyed and muttering under her breath words that the daughter of the Baron von Uberwald should not really know.

'Was that Sam?'

'Yep.' Angua moved over to the kettle and fished out her precious supply of Klatchian coffee from under the pipe. 'You can go and see him, I think. Though he's in a bit of a bad mood.'

'What sort of bad mood?' Sybil asked apprehensively. 'He's not drunk, is he?'

'No, but after I give him this,' Angua was pouring a tiny bit of Colon's 'secret' supply of rum into the mug as well as the coffee, 'he may be.'

'What are you doing?'

Angua held up the packet of coffee. 'There's a warning on here that it turns people knurd. Now, I know it does, which is why I drink mine with rum as well and why I'm not staring melancholically over the city, but Mister Vimes is so close to knurd anyway- hey, where have you gone?'

* * *

Sybil entered the room and saw Sam staring angrily at the wall. 'Sam?' she said hesitantly.

He turned to look at her, and his face broke into a smile. 'Hey.'

'Are you okay? What happened? Why are you knurd? Is your back alright?' The questions tumbled out of her mouth unbidden, and Vimes grinned.

'The stupid bugger stabbed me, Sybil. That's all there is to it.'

'But he hurt you!'

'Oh, it's not too bad,' he said defensively. 'Look, dear, it's part of the job.'

'I don't want you doing it anymore.'

'What, the job? Because I-'

'No, the whole chasing after criminals thing.'

'Well, it is in the job description.'

'Not in the Commander of the Watch's job description. It's the other people who are supposed to go around after miscreants; you're supposed to do the paperwork.'

'But I don't _like_ the paperwork.'

Angua entered with an extremely blank expression, holding the mug out in front of her like a peace offering. Vimes extended his hands gratefully and took it from her, gulping it down, and a look of amazement passed through Angua's eyes as he finished the mug.

'Good. Now I can think.' He looked back up at Sybil. 'I'm sorry I worried you, dear, but I was alright.'

'But I didn't know that!'

'We'll leave you to it,' Angua said. Unsteadily, Carrot got out of bed and gave them a smile.

'Hope you feel better,' he said cheerfully.

Sybil turned back to Sam, and sighed. 'I'm sorry, I didn't even mean to worry. It was just that-'

'I know,' he said consolingly. 'And I shouldn't keep putting my life in danger, but then I wouldn't be _me_.'

She rested her head against his shoulder. 'I'm sorry.'

'_I'm_ sorry.'

'Lady Thybil,' Igor said from behind him, and Sybil jumped out of her skin. 'I'm thorry too, but Mithter Vimeth needth to get thome thleep. It ith not good for you, being thtabbed.'

'I can't stay?'

'He needth to retht.'

'Alright.' She stood up, and kissed Sam on the cheek. 'I'll come back later.'

'Okay.'

'Love you.'

He smiled wearily. 'Love you too. And tell Angua that if she tries to give me alcohol again I'll kill her, werewolf or not.'


	43. Empire - Stoneface Vimes

It began, and ended, with an axe.

Suffer-Not-Injustice Vimes wheeled it over his head and brought it down with a whistling noise. Or perhaps it was a scream.

Either way, it led to the king's head*, in the spirit of true macabre comedy, bouncing off the block onto the cobbles below.

Stoneface lowered the axe to the floor slowly, his arms shaking with the released tension and the fear, the mind numbing, earth shattering terror of what he had unleashed. He became aware that all around him, no one was moving. After someone held up a discrete sign they started cheering and clapping, but it was with the uncertainty which came when five thousand people were unanimously glancing at their neighbour and thinking _'what the hell have we done?'_

Surely they should be happy? The tyrannical king was gone, to be replaced by someone who actually represented the people, it's what happened in stories. Everyone should be happy.

What Stoneface failed to remember, and what countless other before and after him had forgotten, was that people don't _want_ huge revolutions and the ability to choose a leader and say what they do. Not really. There are always some enthusiasts with long hair and sashes who want the proletariat to rise up and crush the upper classes, but they were mostly scorned and ridiculed. People want stability, for life to continue. He had the wrong sort of people.

He walked away, feeling the blood on his hands start to flake off in the hot sunlight.

* * *

*This was later strung up over the entrance to a pub just to add a bit of class to it, say that a king had gone there (whatever state he was in). Other people then thought that this was also a good idea, and by the end of the first week there were enough heads of Lorenzo the Kind to defeat Cerberus three times over.

* * *

Lorenzo the Kind, or what had been Lorenzo the Kind, was staring up at Death.

Death was wearing a rather raggedy cloak with the odd patch and blood stains scattered on it. His bones had a couple of hollows in them, as if he had been struck with stray bullets. Tastes change during a civil war.

He coughed impatiently. UM. MISTER…KING.

'You will bow when you speak to me,' the spirit of Lorenzo told him.

I THINK NOT, Death replied cuttingly. As the immortal king of the realm of the dead, he didn't have much to say to some king for a mere minute, to him, who just happened to have a smarter crown. Or even the ghost of one, which was slightly less shiny.

Death was starting to grow to like people. He had decided that after several millennia of having to deal with them that it might make his job more fun, not to mention a little easier, if he was a bit nicer to people rather than glaring at them haughtily with an expression of boredom. However, this policy did not apply to cat haters.

YOU'VE DONE SOMETHING TERRIBLE IN YOUR LIFE, he said to the dead king.

'If you mean killing all those people, it was war! You're allowed to!'

NO, Death replied coldly. SOMETHING ELSE.

'If you're talking about the children, I like to think I was preparing them for later life.'

NO. Death leaned closer to Lorenzo and managed to glare at him, with his eyes flashing bright blue. DO YOU REMEMBER…SOCKS?

'Well, I'm wearing some.'

NO. YOUR CAT. YOUR _DEAD_ CAT.

'But I was a child!'

SINS LIKE THAT CAN NEVER BE FORGIVEN. Death straightened up and looked down at Lorenzo. I DO NOT KNOW MUCH ABOUT THE AFTERLIFE, BUT I HOPE VERY MUCH THAT THERE IS A SPECIAL SORT OF HELL RESERVED FOR THOSE WHO KILL CATS.

'What?'

The spirit of Lorenzo was gradually fading away. Death regarded him for a moment, shook his head and turned away.

ANIMAL, he muttered.

* * *

It was a defence that he would use many times in the years to come.

I didn't murder him. I put him down.

People like that didn't deserve to live. People who racked others whilst listening to their screams, or tore out their fingernails, or did unspeakable things to children and were _ignored_ . People, in short, who behaved like animals. They had just finished clearing out some of the cellars of the Palace, and some of the things that were down there… He shuddered. Some of the things that were there he couldn't put a use to, and really, really didn't want to.

Not that there would be any witnesses. You couldn't fault royalty for that.

He glumly walked over to the Golden Throne of Ankh-Morpork, kicked it aside and instead slumped into an armchair at the end of the room which overlooked the city.

Stoneface Vimes was not a good man, and he'd be the first to admit it. He'd killed men with his bare hands, he'd cheated and robbed and swindled. But it had all been for the good of the city, he told himself. It had all been for the People, but that had been his mistake.

He groaned as he thought of the civil war. All those people, stupid innocent people who thought they'd follow the crowd and picked what they didn't know was the wrong side and died because of it. They didn't deserve it, but they had gone along with it, and where was the line between acting and not saying a word? The Palace Guards, servants who must have heard something, the people who brought food or supplies or who even glimpsed into the Palace but didn't say anything because they were too scared.

People should have a say. But now Stoneface discovered that they didn't want one.

He had been the ruler for only a month, but now realised that he needed to put his reforms into place pretty damned quickly.

'I welcome you today to the first government of Ankh-Morpork,' he proclaimed to the waiting nobles.

'The hwhat?' Lord Venturi asked. 'A government? With _democracy_?' Venom laced his words.

'Not for long, with you lot,' Vetinari muttered.

'We will be arranging a vote, yes, but at the moment the government will consist of us. We'll organise the city.'

'And how long will this vote take?' Rust asked glumly.

'Well, if it achieves democracy, why rush it?' Stoneface said hotly, glaring at him.

Rust regarded him coolly. 'Mister Vimes-'

'Lord.'

'Pardon?'

'With the death of the king, I take his title,' Vimes said steadily.

'For gods' sakes, man, you killed him!'

The room went silent. You could cut the tension with an axe.

The only sound was Lord Ramkin who, hidden behind thirty years' worth of beard, was cleaning his fingernails. He looked up at the absence of noise.

'Well, it was a pretty good job,' he said breezily. 'And it needed doing. The man was a tyrant, after all.'

'He was a king!'

'But he also did horrible things to men's fingernails.' Ramkin shrugged. 'I don't mind having a new leader.'

'Do the rest of you?' Vetinari asked, smiling sarcastically at Stoneface. 'Because it would be an awful shame if we went to all this trouble only for Lord Vimes to find out that he's not wanted.'

There was a lot of mumbling, the general consensus of which was that of course they wanted Stoneface to rule the city, never said anything different, why wouldn't we want him? They all then wore the expression of men who knew they had protested too much, but Stoneface ignored them.

'So, gentlemen. A government.'

'How exactly do we…govern?'

'Well, one of you will be in charge of transport, one in charge of food, one in charge of healthcare…' Stoneface fell silent, aware that everyone was watching him.

'So we're in charge.'

'Yes.'

'Just us.'

'Yes.'

'Oh.'

Stoneface reminded himself that they had really not signed up for this. They expected a life of luxury and champagne and chocolate balls wrapped in gold foil; instead they had received the devastating news that they would have to do something.

'And the wizards?' Selachii asked. 'Where do they come in?'

'At the moment I don't think they've noticed that the king has gone. We'll just wait 'til they do until we do anything.'

'Well, they own all the land up that bit of the river. Why don't they govern that bit and we govern our bits?'

'Because then, Selachii, we wouldn't have a city. At most, we'd have a small collection of duchies all spread around a bit with no one ruling over all of them.'

There was a muffled discussion. 'We like that idea.'

'Well, you're not getting it. We're working for democracy, not tyranny.'

As soon as he had said it, Stoneface wished he hadn't.

* * *

He was next to the chopping block again, six month after the…event. The disposing of the tyrant. And now that tyrant was him.

He _wasn't_ a tyrant. He knew that for sure; in his battered copper's soul he knew that he had always worked for the people. But now the people had turned out to be selfish and insular and not particularly open to ideas such as voting and democracy, preferring instead to have someone lord over them so that they could get on with their day to day lives.

And then he showed them what freedom costs. It meant people had to work, it meant people had a say in who was doing what. And they didn't like that, they only cared about what they were doing, why should it bother them whether the Watch had one commander or several captains? They came face to face with the Watch involuntarily, they didn't want to be able to change their command. The city ran along steadily on its corrupt tracks and then some stupid copper who thought he could make the world a better place had come along and pushed it down the ravine.

Then they had called him a tyrant.

He stood here now, relieved not to be listening to the jeers and catcalls that he had so often heard when people walked to their deaths, but still haunted by the sounds of apathy. It was a sound, it was an endless murmur that never rose and never fell, just carried on monotonously until…until what?

They wanted one ruler. They didn't want some stupid government who would screw things up and didn't care for them. The larger the government, they thought, the bigger the cock ups, so it made sense to want a one man government rather than a miscellaneous collection of uncaring lords and the incredibly bearded Lord Ramkin. He didn't know who that ruler would be and didn't want to. Selachii, Venturi, Vetinari, even? They would all have their turn, all walk up to this block because the bloody people were too narrow minded to listen but very open minded towards axes. Or maybe it would be some foreign prince. The people _really_ wouldn't like that.

Not that anyone would care about the people anymore. He could be sure of that. Too much hard work.

He thought back to his days as a copper, and realised that he missed them. There was no speech making, no stupid dress robes or having to deal with the nobles any more than twice a week, say. Life was simpler then, and if he could have turned back time he would have.

But time doesn't work that way. He could stand there for hours, trying to turn back the clock, but eventually he would have to take his last step up to the block.

The crowds were silent now. The executioner had come out, a heavy black hood covering his battle scarred features and tiny, pinpointed eyes which remembered every time he had done the same thing for this lord. And it was true - he had sent people to death, but only as an example. It wasn't the same.

_Yes it was_, the inner, treacherous voice assured him. _What's the difference between them and you?_

_It wasn't me standing next to the block._

Old lies. Old, stupid lies that kept people in order and that he had tried to break. But with the way that stories worked here, you could almost believe that the lies were physical things which he had to smash open or slice down with an axe.

He grinned mirthlessly. It all came back to axes.

'Any last words, Mister Vimes?' the executioner said pleasantly, holding the axe in a surprisingly noncommittal way.

_Mister Vimes_, Stoneface thought. _Not even a lord anymore. Not even a commander. Not a captain or a sergeant or a corporal or a constable, just plain old Mister Vimes now. How the tides have turned._

He looked out over the crowds, most people trying to avoid his stare.

'I tried,' he said simply.

'Very concise, Mister Vimes,' the executioner said happily. 'Now, if you'd just put your head there.'

Stoneface did so, and felt the cold wood under his cheek and felt…nothing. He didn't want to feel anymore.

The axe swung down in a line of silver, slicing through the air like a whip.


	44. Turpentine Kisses and Mistaken Blows

Not much existed in Tilda's head at the moment apart from her piecing together the useful explosive powder of flour and the wooden building that she had been locked in for only a couple of days, but already knew that others had been locked in before her. The sporadic bloodstains gave her some indication of that.

She had made sure not to think about it. Thinking would mean that she would have to remember, remember how he held her down and blacked her eye and ripped her top off and…

So she didn't think.

Instead, she thought about flames. Flames were the one thing that was beautiful in her life, the one thing which she had complete power over. Sometimes one of the Sisters would be forgetful and leave a packet of matches on the side, and she would take them just so she could watch the petals of fire leap up from the match head with a freedom she would never have. Sometimes Magda would be able to find a scrap of paper for her and she would gently caress the edge of it with the flame until it blackened and crumbled, destroyed by the glow. She would grind the black powder under her foot until no one would ever know that she had found the matches and that _she had the power_.

For now, at least.

Magda would always try to find something for her to light when things got bad, when the Sisters had been more than generous with the whip and the punches and the prayers for their immortal souls, which seemed to go hand in hand. She would tear out the middle of her prayer book where no one ever looked so that Tilda was burning the very thing which kept her trapped, and then she would help her get rid of the mess, not caring that it blackened her fingers and inflamed the raw skin which covered them, red and swollen from sweeping and washing and grazing on the floor as someone tried to beat the living daylights out of her.

The door opened and Tilda snapped out of her reverie to look up in fear at the miller.

He grinned and moved towards her, locking the door behind him with practiced ease. He pulled off his shirt and Tilda was revolted at the pale, flabby skin and the sparse hair which covered his chest which had touched hers…

He grabbed her wrist as she tried to move away and pulled her closer, pushing her back onto the floor.

She closed her eyes.

* * *

It was eight or nine months later, Tilda was never quite sure when she had first been taken to the mill. She felt cold hands passing underneath her and lifting her up onto some sort of bed without sheets, virtually just a mattress on the floor.

It hurt. Everywhere hurt, but it seemed to culminate in her stomach where someone, she could have sworn, was jabbing her with a knife or a scalpel. There was no metallic sheen or precision to this, it was rough and brutal as if they were trying to get something out of her. But then the pain extended; her throat hurt from screaming and her head hurt from trying to keep it up as she was manhandled off so that she had some indication of whereabouts she was. She was back in the Grey House, she had smelled the odour of cabbage and blood as soon as she entered the room, and guessed this was where the girls who had been Sent Out returned to.

To forget about the pain and the voices around her, muffled murmurs which morphed into one drone of hatred and anger and disgust after a while, she thought of Magda. She must be here somewhere, not knowing where she was, maybe being beaten again like all the times before that she had spoken out against what someone had done. In her head, Tilda smiled at the thought of what Magda would do to the miller.

But it was too late for the miller now, wasn't it? Too late for all those girls who he had abused, certainly, too late for whoever the bloodstains had come from, but now it was too late for the miller himself, who was exploded in a flurry of fire and flour. Let the dead bury the dead.

Tilda was dead somewhere. Something in her, maybe her soul or her spirit or even her mind, had shut down. She hadn't spoken for what seemed like years, hadn't met anyone's eye, had only screamed when the pain became too much to bear. Now even that had gone, swept away in the bliss of exhaustion.

Then she heard a cry.

She was accustomed to cries, even knowing where they originated from by now. There was the exhaustion cry, there was the beating cry, there was the terrified sob which some people hadn't learned to control. But this was a different cry altogether, it was the cry of innocence and pain. The cry of a baby is what she would have said if she had ever heard the like before, but it was a cry which needed her.

Her head snapped up and she saw one of the sisters, Sister Mary from the way she carried herself, that slightly stooped walk which showed that she didn't think that any of this was right, carrying a bundle out of the room.

She made a strangled gasp and one of the Sisters came over to where her head was, glaring into her eyes with an expression of absolute boredom. She didn't care. She didn't care that Tilda was hurting or exhausted or tormented by memories that not even thoughts of Magda could get rid of, she just thought that this girl was wasting her time. She had to be dealt with then removed. It was that clear to her.

All these thoughts rushed through Tilda's head just before she brought her arm back, muscles screaming in protest as old bruises were reignited and old scabs opened, and pushed her fist straight towards the sister's sullen mouth.

Her eyes didn't even widen in surprise; she just grabbed the fist as it came towards her and pulled it down as Tilda let out another gasp of pain. She heard running footsteps as the bright white light was blocked out by grey fabric and felt the prick of a needle in her thigh - a dim pain compared to that coursing through her body along with the rage.

One of the sisters raised her eyebrows as she looked down at her, her severe cheekbones contrasting with her pale skin from a lifetime of never seeing the sun. Sunlight wasn't encouraged here, only the surgical white light which brings to mind images of sharp metal implements and white rooms.

Dullness seemed to be running through her veins now, apathy fighting with the anger and pain in them and winning. Lead flowed through her body, in her mind she visualised it glowing red.

Someone lifted her up and set her on her feet, which shook with the new found weight. Her legs were wasted away from not moving and every step would have been agony had it not been for the apathy, still there, dulling her mind and slowing her reflexes down until when she was led into the corridors, feeling familiar stones and floorboards under her soles, she didn't flinch. They led her through the Hall, and Tilda caught sight of Magda's face in the swarm of people.

She screamed.

Magda ran forward, grabbing the nearest Sister and wiping out another with a well-placed kick until someone, a man a foot taller and wider than Magda, grabbed her round the waist and flung her to the floor, stamping on her ribs for good measure. Then time stopped; Tilda was left standing next to the prone, broken form of Magda who was grimacing with the pain but didn't let the tears escape for fear of seeming weak in front of her.

_Oh, the irony_, the tiny part of Tilda who was still alive said.

Then time returned. The noise crashed down on top of her as Magda was dragged away, to a beating or to confinement if she's lucky, to a session with Father Jupe if she wasn't. It was all irrelevant anyway - the punishment doesn't matter, it's the fact that she was punished for trying to help someone.

Tilda was hurried into another room, the model room for the whole school; grey, fastidiously clean and with the same bright, pervading light which filled the whole place, day and night.

The nurses rushed out, she didn't know where, and she was left alone, staring up at the ceiling and remembering Magda's face.

* * *

Magda sat on the edge of her hard, grey mattress and swung her legs idly, trying not to let the raw skin on the back of her calves touch the scratchy woollen blankets. There were beatings, and then there were _beatings_, and this was one of the latter.

She didn't cry, though. After the first time, where she had sobbed like a baby and it hadn't done anything except prolong it, she had cultivated an expression of disinterest which she maintained every time the whip came down.

It was solitary confinement again for her, just because she had launched herself at the man who had brought Tilda in, shaking and crying and alone. Their eyes had met and Magda had just ran.

She curled herself up on the bed and stared at the ceiling, imagining Tilda's face.

* * *

Tilda was let out a week later, after the pain had mostly gone away and she stopped seeing the faces of children in her nightmares.

As the door opened and she was led out Magda appeared from behind the door, smiling nervously at her until the nurses had left, disappearing into one of the many white corridors to go and torture someone else.

Magda held out a box, sliding the lid back. 'I brought you these,' she whispered.

Tilda nodded, scraping the head of it against the smooth walls of the corridor until, defying all the normal laws of friction, she got it lit. Magda had never quite worked out how she did it.

It was noon, so the house was empty. They walked through the corridors, Magda supporting a limping Tilda who was holding the flame out in front of her like a beacon and staring fixedly at it with an expression that Magda had only ever seen once before, and that was when Father Jupe visited…

It was no secret, Tilda's baby. Some of the girls had heard the cry, a few more had seen Sister Mary carrying the bundle off to the rooms at the back of the Girls' Working School where none of the other girls were ever permitted to go. Magda had gone in there once as a punishment for some punch or other, and had been given the job of cleaning what they said was red paint off the wall.

Finally, they reached the dormitory. There were only four beds there now, two of which Magda knew were unoccupied; for a time she had been the only girl who was too difficult to send out. Not like Tilda. Tilda did what she was told.

She moved over to the bed and sat Tilda down, who hadn't noticed that the match had burned all the way down and was licking at her fingers.

'Tilda?' she asked softly.

There was no expression in Tilda's eyes, just a blank watery hazel which seemed to regard the world with complete apathy, as if she had seen it all and never wanted to look again. She shook her shoulders and there was still no response. Gently, she removed the match from her trembling fingers and blew out the flame.

Tilda didn't turn round.

Finally, Magda did the one thing she didn't want to do, not after Tilda had been through all that. She kissed her softly on the cheek, and something came back to Tilda's eyes. She turned to look at her and nodded.

* * *

Three days later, Magda Halter and Tilda Tewt climbed down to the basement under the pretence that they had to get some more bleach. Well, Magda told them they needed more bleach, Tilda didn't say a word. Tilda just didn't speak any more.

They pushed the ladder down, not caring about its weight or how the wood splintered off into their hands as they climbed down the rungs, concentrating only on what would happen once they got into the basement.

As they turned around they saw that a section of the cellar was lit by the sunlight streaming in through an open window.

Tilda nodded and picked up the bags that they had stashed there the night before, tossing one to Magda. They pulled off the threadbare clothes of the Grey House and pulled on the others, worn, untidy men's clothes which Tilda had taken from one of the houses she was dispatched to after knocking out the man who took her to the bedroom.

Magda cupped her hands and she stood on them, testing the weight. She grabbed hold of the window sill, pulling herself up and reaching down for Magda, who slowly crept out of the window on her stomach.

They didn't stop, just went from climbing to running immediately, until the Grey House was a mere shadow behind them.


	45. Rings - Sybil and Sam

Colon spat on his handkerchief and gave Vimes's face a rub to try and remove the worst of the dirt. All it did was move the dirt into a different position.

The Archchancellor arrived with a bowl of hot water and a bar of soap, and Vimes seized it gratefully. He dunked his whole head into the scalding bucket whilst the Archchancellor winced, and in doing so got soap in both eyes.

'Aarg!' he managed to say, which communicated to Colon: 'Give me the towel or you die, sergeant'. He hastily passed it over, and stepped back as Vimes rose up, dripping suds like some underwater bath monster.

Finally, Vimes was able to open his stinging eyes and look at both of them, standing in clothes much cleaner than his by far. 'Do you have a suit?' he asked apprehensively, not knowing if the wizards dealt much with normal clothing.

The Archchancellor handed over…something. It was fabric, as far as he could tell from the odd glimpse of material between the sequins and gemstones and glitter, but it was bright red and yellow striped.

'No,' he said, handing it back. 'I'll just wash off my breastplate as best I can.'

'I brought some clothes from the watch house, sir,' Fred said, holding up a pile of something that was definitely fabric and a reassuring brown colour. 'Just in case.'

'And this is why you're best man, Fred.'

'Thanks, sir.'

As Vimes ducked into an alleyway to remove his drain-encrusted uniform, which he left there so that Ron could use it if he wanted to, he became aware of a whispered conversation between Colon and the Archchancellor.

_'Do you think he'll hold up?'_

_'Well, he's gonna have to. She's already at the altar, isn't she?'_

_'No, Colon. She's waiting for him to be at the altar. Don't you remember your own marriage?'_

_'Not really. It had been a good stag do.'_

Vimes emerged, feeling slightly cleaner but only marginally less tired. 'How's my hair?'

'A bit spiky, sir. Do you want to wet it down a bit?'

Vimes did so, and managed to soak the collar of his shirt.

'Do you want some product?' the Archchancellor asked.

Vimes turned round slowly. 'Do I _look_ like a man who uses product, Archchancellor?'

'Occasionally, Vimes, you don't look like you use soap.'

Vimes decided to ignore that. 'Shall we?'

'Um, do you know what you're doing, Sam?'

'No. I was sort of hoping that you would.' Colon looked slightly uncomfortable in his dress uniform, and Vimes tried to remember the last time that they had worn it. It must have been ten years or more, and whilst Colon had always been slightly stocky ten years of desk duty had taken its toll.

'Archchancellor, do _you_ know what you're doing?' he tried.

'The Dean showed me the order of service.'

'That's a no, then. Come on.'

As they walked through the back alleys to the university Vimes felt a strange sort of calm. He was getting married, something he never thought he would do but somehow he had ended up doing. It was something completely unexpected, he was fairly sure that no one else had thought that he would end up married to the richest woman in the city, so there was no protocol for this. He could screw up and no one would be able to say, 'this isn't how it goes'. The whole thing wasn't how it usually goes.

The Archchancellor gestured to a tiny door in the wall, disguised with layers of moss and grey paint. 'In you go, cap-sorry, Sam. Modo won't mind us going over the lawn.'

In fact, Modo did mind them going over the lawn; hobnailed boots played havoc with the lawn he had spent 500 years cultivating. However, he had heard that some of the younger wizards had had some new-fangled idea where tools were bewitched to do the gardening rather than having to pay him to do it, and was slightly scared about protesting against anything now.

They reached the Great Hall, and Vimes could sense the restlessness from the doorway. It wasn't fair, the people were saying, we didn't even want to come, we only did because we were invited and you _never_ turn down an invite from the richest woman in the city. Plus, there was free food. And now the groom doesn't have the common decency to turn up on time…

Vimes entered, and they fell silent.

'Sorry,' he said awkwardly. 'You know how it is. Comes with the job.'

The crowd nodded. Yes, you could exclude a captain of the Watch for being late. Probably chasing criminals over rooftops or dealing with a particularly difficult serial killer.

They then thought: _When did we last hear about a serial killer?_

Then: _Well, obviously the Watch is dealing with them._

The crowd sighed. _Serial killers were better then._*

The Dean cleared his throat, which, because he was a large man, echoed around the room. The crowd fell silent.

Vimes was watching the doors at the end of the aisle, noticing how the carvings on them were slightly darker than the rest of the wood, which must mean that they were stuck on after the doors were made. He wondered why anyone would go to that bother, then reminded himself of the suit that Ridcully had tried to press upon him and the current attire of most of the wizards who were making up for the rest of the audience's plain blues or pinks. _They_ obviously weren't trying hard enough.

He became aware that his concentration was drifting, and snapped back into focus as the doors creaked open.

Sybil appeared.

She wasn't Lady Ramkin, or even Lady Sybil now, she was just Sybil. The titles had never quite fitted her anyway, but now, before him wearing a white dress which must have taken an entire roomful of silk worms to produce and weeks to stitch on all the little pearls, she was just Sybil.

She was smiling nervously and trying to stop her Uncle Lofthouse clucking like a chicken as he tripped daintily down the aisle in front of her. As she reached the front she sat him down on a chair, gave him a necklace to play with and smiled apologetically at him. 'Sorry,' she whispered.

He grinned at her. 'I thought the nurse said he was better.'

'I think she was wrong.'

They both turned to look at the unfortunate Uncle Lofthouse, who had inherited every single Ramkin crazy gene, of which there were many, and was engrossed in Sybil's string of pearls, counting them methodically. For a second, Vimes was slightly concerned about the possibility of one of his children being like that.

Then he realised that he was thinking about _children_.

The Dean cleared his throat again and Vimes span around to face the front doors again. Sybil stood beside him.

'The bride and groom have requested that we sing no hymns,' the Dean said. The whole room gave an audible sigh of relief. 'However,' he squinted at the piece of paper, 'someone's written here that you are free to sing later on in the evening when-'

'Don't say that!' Vimes hissed, glancing at Nobby who was grinning wickedly under his oversized helmet.

'Sorry, sorry. Anyway, we'd better get on.' He cleared his throat, and when he spoke it was in the voice of a middle age aristocratic woman, having re-read _Lady Deidre Waggon's Book of Etiquette_ the night before. 'We are here today,' he trilled, 'for the marriage of Lady Sybil Deidre Olgivanna Ramkin and Samuel Vimes. If anyone has any reason why these two people should not be married, please speak now.'

Colon managed to get Nobby in a headlock before he did anything stupid.

'Excellent,' the Dean said, looking around. 'It's always nice when that doesn't create any responses. Right, I believe now that the bride and groom say something to each other now.'

The Archchancellor something whispered in his ear. 'Oh, yes, the vows. Are they prepared?'

Sybil looked questioningly at Vimes. He sighed. 'Look, dear, they were in the pocket of my other breeches which are probably now sold to some unsuspecting tourist by Foul Ole Ron. Do you mind if I make them up?'

She raised her eyebrows, grinning. 'I think they're probably just the _right_ vows, actually. And mine were burnt by Lord Winsborough the First this morning, so do you mind if I make mine up too?'

'Shall those just be our vows?'

She shrugged. 'Sure. And I love you.'

'Love you too.' Vimes smiled at her.

The Dean looked disappointed. 'That's it? No romance, no fluffy babies and golden clouds?' The Archchancellor elbowed him in the ribs. 'Are you sure that's the wrong way round? No, I'm not going to speak more quietly!'

Sybil and Sam sighed as one, then caught one another's eye and tried not to laugh.

'Fine. Fine. Who's got the rings?'

'Colon?' Vimes called. Colon walked to the front awkwardly, trying to get the box out of the front of his breastplate. Finally, he handed over a slightly squashed box which, when opened, contained a simplistic golden ring.

Gently, he slipped it onto Sybil's finger. Unlike his best man's breastplate, it fit perfectly. Sybil lifted another box from the depths of her skirt, having not given it to her uncle for obvious reasons, and did the same.

'You may now kiss the bride,' the Dean proclaimed, really getting into the swing of things now.

Vimes looked at his wife, stared into her loving eyes, and gently leaned forward.

* * *

*The thinking capacity of a crowd is the IQ of the slowest person divided by the number of people in the room. In this room, especially as Rincewind had turned up, it was probably in the minus numbers or had Maths Error printed all over it.

* * *

It was afterwards. Alcohol had happened to other people.

Carrot and Angua had slipped in amongst the multitudes, and after a couple of minutes Vimes figured out exactly why the girl was now walking around when he had seen her shot four times. He was also trying to work out exactly what the relationship between the corporal and the lance-constable was, but decided not to pry. A wise man didn't make enquiries.

The band, who had been resolutely playing despite the rising noise as Ankh-Morpork's finest became more and more inebriated, suddenly stopped. The room stopped with them.

'First dance,' someone called.

'Ye gods,' Vimes murmered, looking at Sybil. 'Do we have to?'

'Yes, Sam. It's tradition.'

'I don't like tradition,' he grumbled.

'Tough.'

Moving slowly through the crowd and hampered slightly by the mass of Sybil's dress, Vimes cursed whoever's idea it was to make a couple who had just got married, with all the terror that it induced, go up onto a dance floor and prance about. Thankfully, before he had started to voice these opinions, they reached the stage and the band struck up a new song.

It was the Hedgehog Song.

'Do you like it?' Sybil asked hesitantly. Behind her, he could see Angua duck behind a pillar in hysterics, and he shot her the _I am your boss_ glare.

'_You_ planned this?'

'Yes. I thought, seeing as we were talking about tradition, this would be appropriate.'

'You know the _Hedgehog_ Song? _You_?'

'I can recite it,' she told him, winking.

'I think I'd have to arrest you,' Vimes said truthfully. 'Why don't we just dance?'

It was surprisingly difficult to dance to the Hedgehog Song. For one thing, it was very fast and Vimes was not a practiced dancer. Neither was Sybil, as it turned out.

'Sorry,' he muttered, after the tenth time he stood on her toes.

'S'alright,' she said, giggling. 'We can probably stop now, there are other people up here.'

'Damn. I was enjoying that.'

'You are joking, aren't you?'

'You guess.'

Vimes stopped, relieved, and led Sybil through the couples and her Uncle Lofthouse until they reached stable ground and seats. They sat there for a while, watching the carnage.

'Who's that girl with Carrot?' Sybil enquired.

'She's Angua. You know, the werewolf we recruited?'

'Ah, I remember. She looks just like her mother.' Sybil considered that. 'Except she looks friendly.'

'Very friendly towards Carrot,' Vimes said, reaching behind him to pick a pork pie off the buffet.

'What happened to that seamstress he was going out with?'

Vimes nearly choked on the pork pie. 'Carrot? _Seamstress_?'

'They were going out for what, a couple of months. I presume they've stopped now. Carrot doesn't seem like that sort of person, to be honest.'

'I doubt he'd understand the whole concept. And Angua would gut him.'

'Fair point.'

They watched the twirling, stumbling dancers with some glee that it wasn't them. 'See that woman over there?' Sybil asked, pointing. 'Well, the man she's dancing with is her husband's brother.'

'Where's her husband?'

Sybil glanced around. 'Over there, by the whiskey cabinet. He's her first cousin.'

Vimes shook his head. The upper class had some funny ways.

Suddenly, he stood up and offered his hand to Sybil. 'Come on.'

'Where are we going?'

'You'll see'. He tugged on Sybil's hand and she followed him to the back door. As he opened it a gust of warm summer air flowed into the room, and he led her outside into the garden.

They entered the evening sunshine which was turning the sky into gold, matching the ring on Sybil's finger, and illuminating the leaves, giving the garden a yellow glow.

_Our garden_, Vimes thought.

He lifted Sybil's chin and turned her face towards him. He was struck by how beautiful she looked.

'I love you,' he told her.

She smiled, and as her lips curved he kissed them.


	46. Dust - Dragon King, Sally, Maladicta

_Dragon King of Arms_

One time, a king who was slightly fed up with how the vampire kept interfering with the royal breeding when he actually wanted to marry the servant girl down in the Second Kitchen, decided that he would get rid of Dragon King of Arms once and for all.

The one thing that this king forgot was that Dragon King of Arms was a _vampire_. Vampires, as a general rule, tend to be quite difficult to kill; it's a definite survival trait in a society fully equipped with garlic and wooden stakes. So the king chopped off his head, giving the excuse of treason with some very flimsy evidence, and was amazed when the vampire simply stood up and put his head back on.

What happened next to the king wasn't important, although it did involve quite a bit of bloodshed. But since then, despite the best interests of many a monarch or lord, Dragon King of Arms had survived. He had never been threatened.

Not until now.

Lord Vetinari, he had heard, had some very original methods of torture. One of them was to simply let people imagine what might happen to them and then they felt relieved when they were simply fined, but he really hadn't imagined this…

'I want you to work for the city,' the man had proclaimed on one of his rare visits to the dungeon.

Dragon King of Arms looked up, pretending not to be surprised. 'And what would I be doing?'

'I need…information.'

'You _have_ information. I know you do.' Vetinari was famed for knowing everything about anyone, though for the first time Dragon was considering that maybe he just had a very good reconnaissance team.

'More…personal information. I don't have eyes everywhere, but you,' Vetinari chuckled, 'you might just, if what I've heard about your methods of reconnaissance are to be believed. I need to know who's got a liking for who, which nobles are planning to marry their children off next, why Lord and Lady Venturi are rarely seen together.'

Dragon nodded. 'Breeding programmes, in essence.'

'Oh, no, not that restrictive. I'm not breeding them for anything, I just need to know what to expect.'

'So that if the second son of Lord Selachii were to become the heir you would know how to deal with his spouse.'

Vetinari gave him a bright smile. 'Exactly. I'm so glad that we have similar interests.'

'And you'll let me out?'

'Oh, of course. No one could say that I'm that tyrannical. You'll have an office, of course, and whatever supplies you desire.'

'And where will this office be?'

Vetinari looked around the dungeon. 'Yes,' he mused, 'I've been thinking about refurbishing these. They've become a little tatty over the years, I feel, and I'm not really using them for what they were designed for anymore.' He snapped back to the vampire. 'Wherever you choose.'

Dragon raised his eyebrows. 'I have a choice?'

'Of course. Your choices are remaining here or going back out into the world, where you will have relative freedom despite being hounded from Ankh-Morpork by every member of the Watch.'

'So, I don't really have a choice.'

'Of course you do. Sanctuary or the might of Commander Vimes. You pick.'

'What if I do choose to go out there?'

'Well, there are all sorts of things that can kill a vampire, aren't there?' Vetinari's grin was now noticeably more pointed. 'But I'm sure that they won't be dealt out without reason.'

* * *

_Salacia von Humperding_

'Sally?'

The pile of dust groaned as Angua came closer.

'Oh, for the love of-'

They were in a tunnel, one of the mines that they were discovering almost daily under the city. The thing which struck Angua as odd whilst she looked down at the powder which remained of her constable was that there was no sunlight anywhere, the only thing she knew which affected Sally. She had described it in the same way that Angua would describe the effects of silver - it seemed to freeze and burn you at the same time, leaving you with double the pain and double the stupidity that the agony caused, really not good if you were a wolf or a hundred bats all with a very limited sense of direction.

She prodded the pile with her foot.

'Ow,' the dust said.

'I thought you carried the kit.'

'I used up the b - no, I can say it - _blood_ last week on that chase in the Shades. That bloody vampire in the Times decided it would be a good idea to take an iconograph.'

Angua nodded and started scraping the dust up into a piece of paper which she carried around just for these sorts of emergencies. Patrolling with a vampire led to you becoming very prepared, especially when that vampire wasn't ever so observant and was ever so occasionally tipsy.

She told herself not to blame Sally. It was hard being a vampire when you were susceptible to sunlight and lived in a city with over three hundred places of worship, most of which were bedecked in all sorts of holy symbols. And then there was the vegetable market, stocked high with garlic…

Still, she didn't make life easy for herself.

'That's uncomfortable, you know?'

'You do want to get out of here alive, right? Because I could easily just chuck you into the air.'

'Oh, ha ha,' the dust said, sounding annoyed. 'Alive. Yes, very funny.'

'I could just trip over…'

'Sergeant, then I'd have to haunt you for the rest of my days. Locked doors would not be an obstacle.'

_You mean they are at the moment?_ 'I thought you already did haunt me,' Angua muttered, standing up and trying not to let the dust float out of the paper.

She walked down the tunnel, which they had been told to patrol after the last of the dwarfs had handed it over to the Watch on account of their eyesight and nosesight, something which Angua wished she didn't have at the moment. She had liked having Carrot as her patrol partner, he didn't talk if he knew she wanted a bit of peace and he never tormented her with annoying questions about her private life, mostly because he _was_ her private life. With Sally she wasn't so lucky.

'Damn and blast religion,' the dust mumbled.

There was a sound which could have been a bolt of lightning shattering the ground above them and a sudden blast of heat. 'Please don't do that,' Angua said wearily.

'Why? It's not like they could kill us. And the tunnel, for your information, was once a temple. Plenty of holiness floating around, so don't complain that there are difficulties which come with your job.'

'I'm not quite sure how similar lightning is to fire and I really, really don't want to find out.'

'Fair enough.'

There was a light at the end of the tunnel. It was Reg Shoe, holding a piece of steak which was full of blood, but to Angua he was a godsend.

She put the piece of paper, filled with the complaining dust, onto the floor and stepped back as a single drop of blood dripped onto it and the powder spiralled up, eventually forming the shape of a rather annoyed and sadly clothesless Constable von Humperding. Angua tossed her the uniform she had found in the tunnel and politely turned away.

'Reg,' she hissed, noticing how the corporal was still standing there staring.

'Sorry, sarge.'

Sally coughed and they turned back around. 'That steak was nice.' Seeing Angua's shudder her grin widened. 'Sorry, full moon and all.'

'Just don't, Sally.'

They proceeded down the street and Angua wondered what exactly she had done to Vimes to deserve this sort of punishment.

* * *

_Maladicta_

It was a sunny day in Borogravia, which was really not a good thing for Sergeant Perks' troops.

'Sarge?' one of the recruits called.

'Yes, Frances?'

'Where's Corporal Maladicta gone?'

Polly turned round and saw the dust with a forlorn black ribbon lying next to it. She sighed, wondering why it was that the vampire hadn't just claimed sick leave during the summer months. But Mal liked risks, she liked flaunting her power at death and, as luck would have it, UV rays, and it eventually led to her being trampled into the paths that they were marching along as just another pile of grey dust.

'Mal?' she queried, walking up to the pile.

'Help me up, will you, Pol,' the corporal said.

'You're dust.'

'I am aware of this, you know. I've got quite good senses, and they're definitely good enough to determine that I'm no longer human shaped.'

Polly rolled her eyes and turned back to the recruits. 'Has anyone got some blood?'

'Well, I have inside me,' one of the more difficult privates said. Polly remembered that she had meant to have a word with her.

'Very funny, Private Smithson, but don't forget that Corporal Maladicta is a vampire with an amazing lack of a sense of humour. She also enjoys literal mindedness.'

The private gulped and took a step back.

'Anyone?' Polly asked. 'Come on, Jane, I know you're the cook around here. You must have some piece of meat somewhere. A piece of steak, maybe.'

'Sorry, sarge. Doesn't keep.'

'There's a cow in a field over there, Polly,' Mal offered.

She turned to look over at the patch of grass which Mal was generously calling a field. 'You want me to get blood from a _cow_. A cow which is not just a cow but a bull and a bit bigger than me.'

'I'm sorry, my eyesight's not what it was.'

'Mal, I'm not going to attack a cow for you.'

'Please?'

Polly sighed and walked over to the fence which surrounded the field, trying not to notice the amount of barbed wire around it. It was either keeping people from the bull or keeping the bull from people, neither of which was a reassuring thought.

'Private Smithson and Private Girdle, can you come with me?'

'What for, sarge?'

'Well, you're the biggest of the lot, making you the strongest, and that's a big cow.'

They nodded and started climbing over the fence, surprising her. She didn't expect them to be so obedient, although she knew that Mal had her own special way of bringing the recruits into line which involved a mere flash of pointed enamel. She was helpful in her own special way.

Taking one last look at the pile of dust which had once been her corporal, she lifted a leg over the fence, thanking Nuggan for the trousers, and dropped into the feel. The bull turned to look at them, malevolence gleaming in its eyes.

'Sarge,' Girdle whispered.

'Yes?'

'That's a big cow.'

The bull turned round to see them and Polly had to admit it was definitely a big cow. In fact, the word 'big' was soon replaced by the word 'humungous'.

Then she remembered something that she had learnt about bulls. Because their foreheads were so wide the views from either eye didn't overlap, so most bulls thought that they were actually two bulls in one body. This led to a bit of confusion.

'Smithson, Girdle,' she whispered, 'I want you to walk over to the right hand side of the field.' She sighed as they moved off in alternate direction. 'That's _that_ way, Girdle.'

'What're you going to do?'

'I'll go left. Then, when you get my signal, start walking forward towards the bull.'

They nodded and moved forwards slowly in that well known military manoeuvre 'Can the humungous bull see me yet?' Polly started to walk in the opposite direction, keeping her eyes fixed on the bull. It was definitely getting confused; it kept shaking its head around and glaring at each person in turn.

Polly whistled, a single brief sound in the silence of the field apart from her own breathing, and the two privates started to move forward towards the bull. Polly walked a little quicker than them so that she could get behind the bull and, hopefully, stick out her sword.

The girls were nearly at eye level with the bull now, who was trying to focus on both Polly and the privates at the same time. His eyes were growing redder and he started pawing at the ground, making tiny bits of grass fly up into the air around his hooves.

Polly darted forward with her sword, just pricking the bull's side and drawing a droplet of blood from it. The bull bellowed and half of it tried to spin towards Polly, the other half remained in confusion land and still stared at the two girls.

'Run like the blazes!' Polly screamed, grabbing the girls' shoulders and pulling them with her. The bull, now given a single target to focus on, started to run, thundering after them and kicking up grass and mud into the back of their legs.

Polly reached the fence and vaulted over it, finding an extra three inches of height in pure terror, and hoisted the other girls over with a minimum of scratches. The bull looked confused again, separated from its enemy from several yards of barbed wire which it remembered it did not like, and slowly retreated.

Polly let the blood fall on top of the pile of dust and watched as the form of Maladicta began to reappear. She simply raised her eyebrows as she saw the corporal's sheepish expression.

'Shall we move on, corporal?'

Mal nodded.

'And will you be wearing your hat this time?'

It was a wide brimmed sunhat, complete with a floppy ribbon and it contrasted beautifully with Maladicta's usually pristine appearance. 'I don't like that hat.'

'Pardon?'

'Yes, Polly.'

'Pardon?'

Mal sighed and put the hat on. 'Yes, sergeant.'

Polly span round and glared at a couple of the privates who were laughing. 'Get a move on, you lot. Hup hup hup!'

Gradually, keeping to the shade that the sparse covering of trees provided, the troops moved on.


	47. Every You, Every Me - Casanunda

Casanunda had been in Lancre for under three weeks, but was already learning a _lot_ about Nanny Ogg.

She had been married three times, although reports varied between those who looked at the ages of Nanny's children and thought 'Hang on a minute…' She was certainly well practiced in dating, although she didn't really need to practice anymore seeing as she had turned it into a career, or possibly an art form. Casanunda had heard that she had gone out with a young Leonard of Quirm, which would explain both the Mona Ogg and the fact that he was now in hiding.

He had also learnt that she was fiercely intelligent; intelligent enough to know that other people didn't need to know that she was intelligent. She was a people person, knew everyone by name and knew their children and who they liked and whether they bought their scumble from her or from the lesser known distilleries up at the Palace.

She also had a very strong love of any liquor.

This was why Nanny Ogg was now sitting in the Goat and Bush with a pint of port. When Casanunda had handed her the normal port glass she had downed it in one and asked for a bigger portion.

'What's this,' she asked, after having drunk half of it.

'It's port, my love,' said the dwarf, who just happened to be paying.

Nanny Ogg considered it and swished it around the glass. 'It's nice.'

'I'm glad you like it,' Casanunda said, holding his own minute glass.

'Could do with a drop of whisky in it, though.'

'You shouldn't mix-' Casanunda gave up as Nanny grabbed an amber coloured decanter and glugged a generous amount of Bearhugger's Finest into her pint glass and took a gulp.

'That's better. Improves the flavour, I think.'

Casanunda sighed, but remained hopeful. So far, his persistent wooing of Nanny Ogg had involved him paying large amounts for everything that she drank in return for whichever gifts she felt she needed to bestow on the world's Second Greatest Lover. So far this hadn't happened, but he was an optimist. You needed to be when you were the second greatest.

Besides, he was really considering proposing to Nanny Ogg.

She had had three husbands so would probably know all there was to know about proposals, so she needed something grand. A big spectacle - it would probably involve strong amounts of alcohol but Casanunda had heard about the newly invented fireworks that the dwarfs back in Ankh-Morpork had started to sell. He was a dwarf with a lot of gold, and he planned to devote it all to this wonderful woman in front of him.

The wonderful woman in front of him had drained her glass and was starting on the prawns, eating them in a way that suggested the prawns were fighting back. Casanunda watched her in adoration.

There was another dwarfish marriage custom, which only dwarfs know about. A dwarf child is expensive to raise and to take that child away, to profit from the money which his or her* parents had lavished on them over the years would be unacceptable to a dwarf. Because of this it is normal for a dwarf to pay back however much the parents have spent on the child.

The trouble came when there were no parents to pay it to.

Casanunda may have been a womaniser, he may have been the world's second greatest lover and a highwayman to boot, but he was still a dwarf. Not many people accepted him as a dwarf anymore, which was fine by him - there was always that confusion about genders and the like - but he had to follow the laws. He was three foot nine in high heels, he may have dressed in bright colours and ruffs and splendour, but being a dwarf was about abiding by dwarf law.

Of course, Casanunda had broken dwarf law more than a few times, but he disregarded this as just going against out of date rules. It was the Century of the Anchovy after all.

Nanny Ogg was…well, Casanunda would have politely said mature in her years. Her parents were most likely dead by now, though she had never mentioned them, and she was not only a mother but a great-grandmother. Casanunda wondered if the dwarfish custom could be reversed so that it was the amount that Nanny Ogg had cost her children; he had seen the paraphernalia in her living room.

Overall, it was proving difficult. Maybe the amount that he was paying for various drinks would suffice.

He held out a jug over her plate, which was piled high with lamb. 'Jus, my love?'

She picked it up and poured it into her glass, taking a gulp. 'This is gravy!'

'You're not supposed to drink it, my love. It's not juice.'

'You said it was juice!' She took another sip. 'Mind you, it ain't half bad.'

He sighed, but remained cheerful. 'Mrs Ogg,' he asked, trying to steer her away from the vodka, 'have you ever thought about the future.'

'I don't like thinkin' 'bout the future. Gives me the willies.'

'I mean our future?'

'Whaddya mean?'

'Our life together.'

Nanny Ogg paused and considered it for a moment. 'Well, I'm gonna carry on with the witching. You can do what you want.'

Casanunda was going to need a bigger event.

* * *

*Casanunda was one of the few dwarfs to accept the additional pronouns as they featured heavily in his line of work. However, he wasn't fussy.

* * *

Human marriage customs, from what he had discovered from Lancre, seemed to go like this:

1) Parent picks out suitable husband/wife for child depending on similar ages, wealth and attributes such as a share in a pork pie shop in the centre of the village. Parents of both parties agree.

2) Person finds someone else better and has a brief liaison with them behind a hay bale or similar.

3) Parents find out and have brief discussion/argument with the person, which results in the person threatening to run away and/or reveals that the marriage might have to be carried out pretty quickly…

4) Wedding happens between person and hay bale liaiser. Whole village attends, including previous betrothed, and several fights break out.

5) Grudges run in village for years to come even when no one really knows why the families are feuding, but it's tradition.

Casanunda didn't quite understand this, but he was sure that it was more simple to the human mind.

Nanny Ogg, as the matriarch of the largest family in the village, had caused many of these feuds. As far as Casanunda could tell it was bad luck, especially if you were a woman, to marry into the Ogg family, as rest assured Nanny would make their lives hell for the next twenty years, forcing them to cook, clean, wash, tidy, sweep and the like until the entire house was pristine. He didn't know if he would be subjected to it as well, though admitted that he would do pretty much anything to marry this splendid woman.

It was a mystery to those who knew about Nanny Ogg and Casanunda's extended courtship that a dwarf who was, unless he was lying, rivalling the professionals for the Greatest Lover stake, had picked Nanny Ogg. Although reputed to be a beauty in her youth, she now resembled a prune with one forlorn tooth which had managed to survive repeated assaults in the form of scumble, boiled sweets and pickled onions. But, they then said, in a society where sex is just not discussed there had to be one oddball.

Dwarfs respect age, though, and Nanny Ogg was rich in years and experience, both of which were fine to Casanunda.

He was trying to broach the subject of marriage to Nanny Ogg, who was stuck in a discussion with the other two witches who kept glaring at each other and at him. The one who had been nicknamed by his home dwarfs as 'K'ez'rek d'b'duz'** didn't seem to like dwarfs much, or men in general, so he was trying to get out of her way by doing the washing up.

He was four feet tall. This took a lot of perseverance, which was often found by people who wanted to avoid Esme Weatherwax, but it was also causing many of the soap suds to fall onto his wig.

Soap suds…

Casanunda had an idea.

When Nanny Ogg came back, looking cheerful because no one had killed each other yet, an event unusual in itself, there was a message written on the drying rack in the quickly fading soap bubbles. It was even written in curly lettering, Casanunda being a romantic at heart.

It read:

_Mrs Ogg,_

_I wants your body, my love._

_Will you marry me?_

Nanny Ogg regarded the note for a moment, then glared at it.

'Must be one of them omeny things,' she told Casanunda whilst wiping the drying rack down. 'They come up all the time, you know. I've never liked 'em, they play havoc with reality and all that jazz.'

'Really,' Casanunda said weakly.

* * *

**Lit: Go Around The Other Side Of The Mountain

* * *

The coach pulled up alongside the Ogg house, only just managing to get through the narrow streets when Casanunda took the side lamps off, slipping an extra dollar to the coachman. It was the smile that did it, he told himself, not because he was holding anything pointed which he managed to slip inside his coat quite quickly.

The carriage was pale blue and glittery, the sort of glitter which isn't gaudy, merely metallic. The spokes of the wheels were made of silver, well, steel plated with silver, and the bridles on the horses were intricately decorated with flowers and stars, though he had tried not to make it too occult. It was a coach fit for a princess.

Nanny Ogg opened the door, up to her elbows in flour with bits of pastry scattered through her hair. The hat was loosely adorned with icing sugar, Pewsey having far too good an aim.

'Whaddya want?' she asked. Then her eyes took in the coach in front of her. 'Ooh, look at that.'

Casanunda got down on one knee. Nanny stood on his back and clambered into the carriage, glitter cascading all over Casanunda's wig as her fingernails clawed the sides. Maybe he should have paid for the hundred dollar version…

'Oooh, it's got all velvet and red inside.'

Casanunda stood up, which didn't increase his height a great deal, and jumped into the carriage. Being a moonlighting highwayman taught you a lot of skills, not all of them in the bedroom department.

'My dear Mrs Ogg,' he said, in tones of honey.

'Look 'ere, it's got gold fancy bits.'

'My fair lady.'

Nanny sat down and bounced around a bit on the springs, causing several to rupture and bounce out of the seat. 'So, where are we going? Because I can't be away for long, Esme wants us to go to Ankh-Morpork.'

Casanunda felt like his stomach had dropped down like lead. 'Ankh-Morpork?' he said dully.

'Yeah. There's this girl, she's called Agnes Nitt though she prefers Perdita, you must know her, _big_ girl. Lovely hair, though. Anyhoos, we're gonna go to the big Wahoonie to try an' get her back 'cause Esme's gettin' a bit bored with just the two of us and Magrat's too busy with the baby.'

'But I want you to marry me!' Casanunda complained.

Nanny Ogg's eyes narrowed. 'Did you?'

'Yes! I've been trying to tell you for weeks!'

'You should've said,' Nanny said, propping her feet up on the gold rail. 'Well, I'm a bit busy at the moment, don't know when I'm going to get back from the city and you know the journey there's hell, but how about some time next year?'

'Next _year_?'

'Should've quietened down by then.'

'But I'm in love with you, Mrs Ogg!'

Nanny Ogg looked him down and further down. 'Are you really?

'Yes!'

'Coo! That hasn't happened to me for ages,' mused Nanny, fiddling with an ornate buckle which was holding the curtains back. Nanny Ogg had never needed curtains, preferring to be open about her affairs.

Casanunda jumped down from the coach and grabbed the side of it, clinging on for dear life. 'My dear Mrs Ogg, I cannot tolerate this coyness!'

Nanny Ogg looked affronted for a moment. 'Coy? _Me_?'

'I wish to marry you!'

'And I've told you, I'm a bit busy at the moment. But I should be free after Offle, so we can see about it then. If you really want, I could marry you in Ike but we'd have to wait for the honeymoon.'

'I wanted romance!'

'Well, you can 'ave it. After Offle though, I'm goin' abroad and seein' the world.'

Casanunda looked at her dejectedly. 'We were going to spend the rest of our lives together,' he mourned.

'We were? I don't remember discussing it.'

'I've been trying to tell you!'

'Look,' Nanny said, amicably patting him on the wig. 'I've got no call for romance and the like - I'm far too busy with all this witchin' and to be quite frank my body's not up to what it was. You seemed a nice ma-dwarf, sorry, and I thought we could go on a couple of dates. It was never goin' to be serious, like.' She sniffed. ''sides, Esme would never approve.'

Casanunda looked at her sadly. 'I will take leave of your company, Nanny Ogg.'

'Alright, well, it's your decision.'

'You have left me heartbroken!'

Nanny was perplexed. She, as far as she was aware, had only ever broken bones, and that was only if she was in an adventurous mood or the man kept taking liberties that she felt were Inappropriate Towards A Lady. This hadn't happened very often; Nanny had a very broad mind.

'I didn't do a thing,' she said.

Casanunda turned on his high heels and walked, shoulders drooping, into the setting sun. He only ever returned to the village to get his carriage back and to pay the confused driver.

* * *

Three weeks later a coach was halted on the journey between Quirm and Sto Lat by a highwayman.

'Kneel and deliver!' Casanunda proclaimed, fully decked out in swashbuckling black.

Ah, it was good to be back.


	48. Project - Trev Likely

Carrot bounced the ball a few times on the packed dirt and turned to look at Trev.

'Would you like to have a go, Mr Likely?' he asked, smiling at him.

Trev was leaning against a helpful building and watching the poor, luckless watchman trying to teach these cutthroat youngsters to play a civilised game of foot-the-ball. Everyone knew that it wasn't supposed to be civilised - that was half the fun - but this man seemed to want to bring order to a game which thrived on anarchy.

'I fink I'll just watch,' he said, shifting his weight and trying to avoid the glares of some of the boys who recognised him. He didn't like being recognisable; too many people had wolf whistled after him after the whole thing with Juliet and the football stadium, if you could call it that.

'All right,' Carrot said cheerfully. Then his eyes narrowed. 'Thomas Leastways, what's that I see you carrying?'

''s a knife, Captain Carrot.'

'And what do we do with knives, Thomas?'

The young urchin, who probably knew a lot of things someone could do with a knife, seemed to be searching through his brain for something appropriate to say.

'We put them in the pile over there, don't we, Tom?' Carrot said helpfully, gesturing towards the lethal stack of Ankh-Morpork's finest daggers, hats with sharpened pennies in and knuckledusters.

''s, Captain Carrot.'

Trev watched in amazement as the boy walked over to the pile, opened his jacket and dropped five knives, one blackjack and a penknife onto the rest of the weapons. He wasn't amazed at the number of the weapons, he had grown up in Ankh-Morpork after all, he was astonished that the boy seemed to have given up all his weapons.

Carrot, though, had sharper eyes. 'And the one in your boot, Thomas.'

The boy sheepishly tipped out another two knives from his shoe, trying not to look at Carrot's disappointed face. It was like kicking a puppy.

'Good lad.'

The boy returned to the group and stared at the ground in embarrassment whilst Carrot tried to cajole the rest into something imitating a warm up. As most warm ups go, it was a fumbled affair of trying to look enthusiastic whilst moving the minimal amount.

'And do you need to hand over any weapons, Mr Likely?'

Trev turned round to see the speaker of the low voice by his ear. 'I ain't playing, sarge.'

'That's sergeant to you.' Sergeant Angua was also leaning against the wall, though so quietly Trev hadn't noticed her, and was watching Carrot.

'Do you play, sergeant?' Trev asked, eyebrows raised.

'I think you can answer that question, Mr Likely,' she said, eyes still fixed on what could be a foot-the-ball court in a bad light.

'Why are you here?'

She sighed. 'Vimes wants him back on duty. I just need to catch his eye.'

'That shouldn't be too hard,' Trev said absently, just the sort of thing he would say to any normal girl, then immediately regretted it.

Angua seemed unperturbed. 'How is your young lady, Trev?'

Well, that shut him up.

They waited for a moment whilst Carrot led the team on a jog around some of the alleyways, which resulted in a bit of a crush as everyone tried not to be the last person to arrive back at the field.

'Carrot?' Sergeant Angua called, after waving frantically for a minute or so.

Carrot turned around, his face flushed from running around in full armour. As he walked over to her some of the kids tried to reclaim their weapons from the pile so Trev went to stand next to it, glaring at anyone who approached.

'Vimes wants you back at the Yard,' he heard Angua say.

'It's supposed to be my free afternoon.'

'Sorry, Carrot, I said that wrong. What he actually said was 'Tell him to stop wasting his breath on that bunch of felons and to come back.'

'They're good lads at heart.'

'Right, the big pile of weapons over in the corner really proves that.'

Carrot sighed. 'All right. Just let me tell them.'

He walked over to the bunch, not noticing Angua's rolled eyes behind him. 'I'm sorry, team, but I have to go back to work. Make sure to take the correct weapons, you know how many little scuffles there were last week.'

'D'you want me to organise it, Captain?' Trev asked.

'Thanks, Mister Likely. Now, boys, Mister Likely's from round here, so he knows all your little tricks.' Carrot gave them a bright smile and looked expectantly at them.

The boys glared at each other and reluctantly raised their index fingers to their ears. 'Wib wib wib,' they muttered.

Sergeant Angua stared at the sky, keeping an impressively blank face. Trev tried to hide his expression behind the pile of assorted armaments.

'Wob wob wob,' Carrot replied heartily, turning back to Angua.

As soon as he was gone the might of Captain Carrot's Football Team (he hadn't got round to thinking of a name yet) turned on Trev. He recognised a few of them as being Dollies and gulped.

'Right, let's see who these belong to,' he said, trying to remain cheerful. He held up what looked like a double headed throwing axe. 'Whose is this?'

Two people raised their hands.

'You can't both own this.'

'Why not?'

'Well, it's not on, sharing weapons. Who attacks when someone comes at you with a bat?'

'I do,' each of the boys said immediately.

He raised his eyebrows, sensing the mood of the crowd like a sinking barometer, and stepped back slightly. 'Why don't you just sort it out between yerselves?'

He nodded a couple of times, just to reassure himself that he'd done what Captain Carrot had asked, then turned on his heels and fled. Behind him he could head the muffled sounds of several arguments about the ownership of a particularly sharp dagger.

* * *

It was the first Dolly Sisters v Dimwell Street Juniors game and, if Trev would dare to say so in front of the very colourful looking Captain Carrot, decked out in a referee's uniform which could be seen from space, probably the last.

The two teams stood at opposite ends of the Hen and Chickens Field, which Carrot was cheerfully telling everyone was named so because of how the condemned criminals would follow the priest to the scaffold and was really putting the teams in a positive frame of mind. With any luck they wouldn't start attacking each other until the second half.

Sergeant Angua was there again, trying to hide in the shadow of the buildings along Runecaster Way. As Trev walked up to her she turned to glare at him.

'Some might say it's a bit odd you're always here,' he said.

'Would they?'

'Maybe Carrot told you to. Or maybe you want to.'

'Maybe.'

Trev sighed. Whilst Carrot was an open book, albeit one which would be the illustrated version of the Laws and Ordinances of Ankh-Morpork, this officer had obviously trained under Vimes. It was a particular type of blank expression, conveying perfectly clearly that if the person doesn't back away soon it will spell trouble. And not just 'trubble', which was how most people round here spelled it, but the proper Trouble with a capital T. It was a blank look which spoke volumes.

'So, what's the bettin' of someone gettin' killed?' he asked.

'What, back in the Watch House. Nine to one against.'

'That low?'

'This is _Carrot_ we're talking about.'

'What do you mean by that?'

The match had started and Sergeant Angua turned back, ignoring his question. The boys, who had previously been pawing the ground and glaring at their arch enemies were now playing half-decent game of foot-the-ball, with Captain Carrot running around shouting orders. The orders seemed to mostly consist of 'Harry Scuggins, put down the knife _now_!', but he had to admit that they were working.

Cut-Me-Own-Throat Dibbler was walking amongst the spectators, which had mostly turned out for the carnage at the end and not, as they would assure themselves many times, because Carrot had asked them to. He was taking the opportunity to flog some of his infamous sausage inna buns to unsuspecting tourists who had heard that foot-the-ball with the Next Biggest Thing and wanted to tell the grandkids that they were there. So far the match wasn't proving to be that exciting, just a bunch of boys in whichever coloured shirts their mams could find running around on the field.

Carrot's smile, though, could have lit a thousand lamps. Even Sergeant Angua was smiling slightly.

He blew his whistle carefully, having been warned by Ridcully about the evil spirits that lingered within, and the boys stopped trying to kick each other's ankles in the true spirit of the game.

'Right, lads, oranges are up.'

The boys seemed perplexed at the bright segments, some feeling the need to squeeze the juice all over their tops. After Carrot had demonstrated what he thought was the correct way to eat an orange, which was with a wooden knife and fork, they seemed to get the idea.

Carrot walked over to Angua and offered her a segment, which she accepted reluctantly after eyeing it suspiciously and sniffing it. A couple of the boys had offered Trev one, but he declined it on the grounds that anything that colourful couldn't be good for you.

However, even as Trev watched what Carrot had termed 'an opportunity for both sides to cooperate', he could see the cracks beginning to appear. There were definitely sides beginning to form; the two bags of oranges had been split between two groups instead of being shared, like Carrot had told them to.

It was the Dollies versus the Dimmers all over again, re-enacted in childhood.

Of course the children were taught about the bitter feud which had existed between them, like that between the Angels and the Whoppers but in a larger scale with an extra topping of bloodshed. They were taught not to trust them Dolly bastards or that Dimmer scum, 'cos everyone knew that the Dollies had it in them - had attacked Dave Likely as he lay in the gutter with blood pouring out of his head, they did - and those Dimmers had tried to knock out Stollop Senior last time he got out of the put to play a decent game. It's feuds like this which often lead to the Hedge Argument Murder or something similar, although in Ankh-Morpork it was more likely to be the Decrepit Fence Assault With A Pickaxe.

And he had known never to trust the Dollies, but he had met one and she was remarkably like him. True, there were times when Juliet could be a little ditsy, but she was his girlfriend after all. She had picked _him_.

Trev turned back to the game at the sound of a whistle blowing. The two teams were lined up facing each other again, though there was something wrong with the atmosphere. It felt heavier, Trev would have said, filled with unspoken curses and long-awaited battles which could overflow with the slightest encouragement.

If Captain Carrot had a flaw it was not paying attention to small details. It was also having as much mood detecting skills as a flower pot.

Sergeant Angua was obviously a little better, stepping forward and tapping Carrot on the arm. 'Carrot,' she said clearly, making sure everyone could hear, 'I think the boys could do with another break. They still look tired.'

'But half times are fifteen minutes long.'

'Carrot,' she said, and Trev could detect the warning note in her voice. Carrot evidently could too, as he turned round to the boys.

'You can go and get a drink, lads,' he said, gesturing to the water fountain. The boys slouched off in the air of people who do want to fight, they've just found something better to do.

'Carrot,' Angua hissed, taking hold of his wrist. 'You do realise that these are the Dollies and the Dimmers?'

'Yes. What about it?'

'_Look_ at them, Carrot. One wrong move and they'll be stabbing each other!'

'They're good lads at heart,' Carrot replied, a little uncertainly.

Angua shot a glare at Trev, who was innocently handing out glasses of water and trying to remain in earshot, and pulled Carrot to one side. There was what sounded like a brief argument, then Angua shrugged her shoulders and shook her head at Trev.

Carrot walked back into the middle of the field. 'Shall we get started?' he asked brightly.

Trev wandered back over to Sergeant Angua, who had her hand on her sword just in case. 'He's gonna get cheesed, isn't he?'

'You just get back to the water, Trev,' she said, a little distantly, still watching Carrot.

The teams had lined up again, and the atmosphere was full of Atmosphere. A couple of them had their hands ominously on their belts, whilst others were settling for pointed glares and hissed insults.

Carrot blew his whistle. They each stepped forward.

'Come on, boys, you can beat them!' Carrot called, apparently to both teams. The boys looked perplexed, unused to being given encouragement.

The leader of the Dollies kicked the ball to his teammate, who was intercepted by one of the smallest Dimmers. A few fists came out, but then the boys caught sight of Carrot's innocent, enthusiastic smile and refrained from the more physical side of the sport.

They passed the ball around tentatively, no one making a sudden move in case the tension reached boiling point. It was still there, simmering beneath forced smiles and poor footwork, but Carrot stood in the way, all six foot of him. They had never been called 'good lads' before, the usual term of endearment being 'Gerroff, you bastard', and they were ashamed of being pleased about it.

Angua rolled her eyes at Trev, who was watching the match in astonishment.

They were two rival teams, playing a civilised if not skilful game of foot-the-ball with no fatalities. He had never seen the like. When the whistle blew they trudged off, trying to look nonchalant as if they hadn't just blushed when Carrot patted them all on the back, giving the other team the classic 'I've got better things to do' look.

The man could make water run uphill if he wanted to. He had certainly made a load of child ruffians and felons into something masquerading as a football team.

The next week, Carrot officially formed the Football League. Trev even felt enthused enough to give a couple of lessons on not getting your head kicked in.


	49. Adore - Carrot and Angua

Carrot finally finished the report that he had been writing and looked at the clock. It was too early to go on shift, but too late to go home. It seemed like the story of his life at the moment.

He glanced over at Angua, who had fallen asleep in her chair half way through doing the expenses for the Lemonade Factory. She seemed stressed even asleep, like she was strung up on a wire too tightly; her hair was screwed up in a ball and she hadn't worn any make up for days. Empty coffee mugs littered her side of the table and half of the bits of paper had some stain on them.

He found a blanket in a drawer somewhere and draped it over her, putting a cushion behind her head as he tried to move without the floors creaking and waking her. Then he curled up in his chair and tried to get a couple of hours' rest.

* * *

The night after it was too late to go to Mrs Cake's, which was sort of their home now. Angua and him went into his old room and tried to get to sleep on the musty mattress with the springs that poked into your back, which he had never noticed before. Enclosed in his arms, Angua relaxed slightly, but still woke up in the middle of the night and went back into the office.

He watched her go, her figure silhouetted in the doorway as she rubbed her eyes to remove the worst of the sleep, and wondered if this was _right_.

* * *

Vimes entered Carrot and Angua's office, hoping to nick some reports from Carrot and correct the spelling before he went home, and was surprised to see the two captains still there.

'You two went off shift hours ago.'

They turned to face him. Angua had her feet propped up on the desk whilst Carrot wore his usual expression of good natured keenness and saluted. Angua rolled her eyes.

'There's always the paperwork, sir,' she told him.

'Let someone else deal with it.'

'Well usually if I can't do it I give it to Carrot, if he can't do it he gives it to me. Tonight, neither of us can do it.'

'What is it?'

'Nobby's expenses. We've even managed to do Colon's, which took both of us and a lot of figgins, but this one's beating us.'

'Oh, just give it to Pessimal.'

'He's gone home, sir. And you did say that we should get all of the expenses done by the end of the month,' Carrot said.

'Did I?'

'Yes, sir.'

Vimes sighed and looked to Angua for some respite, who simply glared at him.

'Just go home, you two. You've been overworking yourself again.'

'Sorry, sir.'

Vimes looked at them, properly looked at them. Both of them had tired eyes, purple shadows surrounding them, and their clothes looked as if they had been worn for a while. The table, although clean, had quite a few coffee mugs stacked at one end.

For an office that they both shared, it was remarkably spartan. There were no iconographs, no pictures or even a poster on the wall.

The phrase _persistent floater_ came to mind.

'When was the last time you two went out together?' he asked them.

Carrot considered it, and looked at Angua. 'A couple of weeks ago, was it?'

'Probably longer.'

'I can't remember.'

'That's not good, you realise,' he told them.

Angua laughed, a shade bitterly. 'Honestly, Mister Vimes, we don't need your advice.'

'Then when was the last time you slept together?'

'Really, sir?'

'Yep. Really. I like to take an interest in my officers.'

They looked at each other again. 'Again, I can't really remember,' Angua admitted.

Vimes picked up their coats from the hook on the back door and chucked them at the table. 'Please, for me, go home. It's not healthy to be here all the time.'

Angua nodded distantly.

'Go home, get some rest, you've got the week off. Do what you want.'

They turned to face him, eyebrows raised. 'A week?'

'Yep. Detritus and Cheery can cope without you.'

'A week?'

'Yep.'

'But what are we going to _do_?'

'Oh, I don't know. Visit some museums, go out for dinner, walk around the city, actually get some proper sleep rather than this place's excuse for it.'

They stood up and Angua shrugged her coat on, doing up the buttons in the wrong order in her exhaustion. 'Thanks, sir.'

'No problem. Just have a break.'

Carrot nodded and put an arm around Angua's shoulders. 'Night, sir.'

'It's nearly morning.'

'Is it?' Carrot looked out of the window. 'Oh, so it is.'

'Go home, lad.' He pushed them towards the door. 'We'll be fine here.'

* * *

Angua and Carrot walked down the road, hand in hand, not having to say a word. Their boots hit the cobbles in the perfect policeman's rhythm as they proceeded down through the Shades, Carrot greeting every midnight thief and seamstress.

Once they reached Mrs Cake's Carrot opened the door quietly, leading her to her room as quietly as possible, aware that the resident vampires did not like to be disturbed in the hours of daylight. He shut the door behind them and took Angua's coat, hanging it on the back of their door.

'When was the last time we came here?' she asked.

'Couple of days. Maybe more.'

'That's not good, is it?' She lay down on the bed, not bothering to get undressed first. 'Gods, I'm tired.'

He, at least, bothered to take his boots off before climbing in beside her and pulling the blankets over them. Enclosed in the darkness and the warmth of the bed, he kissed her on the cheek and she wrapped her arms around him.

'What are we going to do?' he asked.

'I think sleep's a priority at the moment.'

'If you want to,' he said sleepily.

'I'd like to.'

'Okay. And Angua?'

'Yes?'

'Love you.'

After three solid days of staying awake by coffee and figgins and trying to get to sleep on uncomfortable chairs, they fell asleep almost instantly.

* * *

Angua woke up, wondered why she was still wearing her uniform and why it was daylight and she wasn't at work. Then she realised that she was actually at Mrs Cake's with Carrot next to her and that _she didn't need to go into work_.

She liked this thought.

Carrot rolled over towards her and opened his eyes. 'Are we late?'

'Mister Vimes gave us the week off.'

'Oh, yeah.' He propped himself up on one elbow. 'Shall I go and get breakfast? Harga's should be open by now.'

'Sounds good to me. But there's one thing we need to do first.'

'What's that?'

As an answer, she pulled him towards her. 'Mister Vimes did say.'

He laughed, then lowered his head to hers.

* * *

Angua stood underneath the shower head which lazily dribbled out a stream of water onto her hair, which had wired itself into a clump. She tore the comb through it, trying to remove the best of the soap and the knots.

Climbing out, she was hit by the cold and wrapped a towel around her quickly. There was a knock on the door.

'Carrot?' she asked.

'No, it's me.'

'Mister Vimes? Give me a minute.'

She pulled on her top and screwed the towel around her head, then opened the door. Vimes was standing there awkwardly, holding something in his hand.

'Are you okay?'

'Me? Yeah, I'm good.'

'You got a good night's sleep?'

She tilted her head to one side and glared at him. 'Yes,' she said slowly. 'Why?'

He handed her a key, which looked remarkably similar to the one that she had for her room, and she held it up. 'What's this?'

'You know Mr Ixolite? The banshee?'

'Yes. Lives in the room next to mine.'

'The big room, yes? Well, he's moving out, he's found a job opportunity in Uberwald. So the room's free.'

She looked at the key again. 'And, let me guess, the room, which is bigger and has a little kitchen and a bathroom as well, is going to be visited by me and Carrot this afternoon.'

'Your room is a bit small.'

'It wasn't designed for two.'

'You can tell.' She raised her eyebrows and he grinned. 'Look, Angua, some day you and Carrot are going to need your own place, one that's a bit bigger than Mrs Cake's cheapest room. So here you go.'

'How much is the rent?'

'I've got that covered.'

'You just said we need our _own_ place. How much is the rent?'

'Twenty a month.'

'Only that? My room's ten.'

'The appointment's at two,' he told her. 'Mrs Cake'll be there, though apparently she's got a mediuming just before so she might be a bit dazed.'

'She's always a bit dazed.'

'And the Watch can help you move out.'

'It's next door.' Her eyes widened. 'You planned this, didn't you?'

'What?' he tried to ask innocently.

'Me and Carrot being off. The room suddenly coming up for sale.'

'No. I would have given you the time off anyway. You looked like death warmed up, if you don't mind me saying.' He regarded her closely. 'It's amazing what a good sleep can do. You look almost human.'

'Gee, thanks. Have you seen Carrot yet? He was going to get breakfast.'

'He met me on the way down here, and he gives his consent to the room. He seemed pretty eager to move out, actually.'

'He doesn't like the bed,' Angua murmured, half to herself. Vimes grinned, but kept his comment to himself.

'So, two?'

'Okay.'

'And don't try any funny tricks like coming into work.'

'Spoken like a true commander,' she said dryly. 'Have you ever told an employee that they _have_ to take time off?'

He considered it. 'I've never needed to. And go back to bed if you need to.'

She raised her eyebrows. 'What do you mean by that?'

'I mean get some rest, of course,' he said, feigning ignorance. 'What else could I mean?'

He walked off, whistling under his breath, and she walked back to her room. Carrot was sitting on the bed with two trays.

'I got you an egg roll,' he said cheerfully, handing it to her. 'You look lovely.'

'Really?'

'Yes.' He smiled at her and she felt her stomach go funny. 'We shouldn't have stayed at work so long.'

'We've got a week off now. Did Vimes tell you about the room?'

'Yes, it's great that he thought of us, isn't it?'

She watched him carefully, looking for any sign that he suspected an ulterior motive on Vimes's part or any big plan. But that wasn't his way, was it? He saw that someone had been nice, he didn't _question_ it like her or try and find something wrong with it.

'Let's just take the room,' she decided.

'What?'

'Let's just take it. We need the space, all the rooms at Mrs Cake's are good and they're clean and she's understanding and someday we'll need more room than we've got now. And I want a home, Carrot, not just a room.'

He seemed slightly startled, but recovered quickly. 'Okay. I mean, yes, that's great, are you _sure_?'

'Yes. Completely.'

He grinned. 'Okay. But first there's a brand new exhibit at the Dwarf Bread Museum which I've been wanting to take you to for ages.'

'Okay. Then maybe we could visit the Hanging Gardens of Morpork.'

'It's closed for refurbishment,' Carrot said solemnly, not picking up on the sarcasm at all.

'What a shame,' she replied, taking a bite of her roll. It was perfect.

* * *

At the end of the week they had definitely made progress. It didn't take them long.

Half of the Watch had managed to fit into their tiny home, much to the dismay of Mrs Cake and Angua, who knew it would be her who would be cleaning it up. However, she couldn't be sad in the face of Carrot's happiness, who was showing off their home like a prized possession. He was even doing guided tours of the four rooms.

'Not the bedroom, Carrot,' she called.

'But it's got the most lovely curtains.'

'I said no, Carrot.'

She heard Mister Vimes laughing behind her and turned round. 'Thank you.'

He shrugged. 'I didn't do a thing.'

'You let us have time off, for a start. And you bought us that god awful vase.'

'That was Sybil,' he said defensively. 'And all good homes should have one piece of furniture that's stored behind the bath because no one wants to see it again. I bought you the door handles.'

'How thoughtful.'

'I copied the ones in your old room. Thought they might be of use.'

'Carrot's installed a dog flap. I didn't even know that was possible.'

'Anything's possible,' he said, smiling at her. Then he rushed to grab Young Sam, who was trying to smash the god awful vase on the table, probably for Angua's benefit.

She moved through the crowd, confiscating bottles of whiskey on occasion, and reached Carrot just as he finished showing Detritus and Cheery around.

'It's a lovely place,' Cheery said, looking up at them.

'What's dat, dat…'

'The kitchen, Detritus?'

'I think it's getting a bit hot in here,' Cheery whispered to Angua, who moved to open the window.

'Dat kitchen's nice,' Detritus said reverently. 'Nice kitchen.'

Carrot kept a perfectly blank face and nodded. 'Yes, sergeant. Do you want to go and get some air?'

Slowly the room was emptying as it came up to the shift change, and people were waving goodbye to them. Vimes finally managed to prise Young Sam away from chewing the chair - he was at the age all infants go where anything is edible* - nodded to them and left.

'You in tomorrow, then?' Cheery asked.

'Yep. Back to normal.'

'See you then.' She saluted, then towed Detritus out of the door. Carrot winced as he heard the troll's head bash against the doorframe and turned back to Angua, who was busy clearing up napkins and glasses.

'That was nice, wasn't it?'

'It was,' she said distantly, lying on the floor and pulling a dog chew toy out from under the sofa. 'Who did this?'

'I don't think they meant it as an insult.'

She raised her eyebrows, then laughed. 'Always look on the bright side.'

He smiled and pulled her over to the sofa, where she curled up and put her head on his lap. 'This is ours,' she said in astonishment.

'Yep.'

'They'll be wanting us to get married now,' she said, only half consciously. Then she realised what she had said and her eyes slammed open.

'Do you want to get married?' Carrot asked, seemingly unconcerned.

She sighed, rolling over to look up at him. 'Not for now. Let's take it one step at a time.'

* * *

*This is natural selection in action.


	50. Murmur - Ma Lilywhite

**Apologies: I seem to have forgotten this chapter. Don't know how that happened. **

**Enjoy :)**

* * *

Ma Lilywhite was known by _everyone_.

Her heavy, thumping boots as they made their way through the narrow, winding streets of the Shades. Her ferocious words which she barked out, startling nearby traders and making pigeons flap away, thanking their skills in sensing trouble through their feet. Her grime and blood smeared apron, the thick arms made muscular by days working in factories and market stalls, the way she could just appear from nowhere and make your life a misery with one sentence.

They knew Banjo and Davey as well and pitied them. Everyone knew that Ma was generous with the stick, the only carrots they ever got near to were those they'd nicked from the shops up in Ankh, where people never took notice of a wiry, straggly haired urchin and his lump of a companion. In Ankh street urchins just didn't exist, so the people there made sure to block them from their vision lest they discover the reality of the world widdershins of the river.

The Watch knew Ma Lilywhite and the Lilywhite boys very well, knew them well enough not to just freely give them the key like they would with criminals who knew when they were beaten just in case Ma attacked them with the pointy edge, knocked a couple of the constables out and left by throwing a bottle of lit kerosene in through the window. Ma had been in the Tanty more than a few times when the Watch had handed them over to the professionals, always managing to escape with the aid of some prison warden she had tried to seduce then beaten up until they let her nick the keys. She was resourceful like that.

Ma Lilywhite was terror personified. At least she was to her two sons.

She had been moral, Medium Dave accepted that. She had taught them plenty of lessons, most of them useful for citizens of the Shades only but some of them rules which would prevent them getting a sharp stiletto to the unmentionables later in life. For Ma was a sort of feminist, certainly one who believed that women were better than men when it came to intelligence, originality and ruthlessness of the sort which had left several small traders without a heartbeat because they accidently short changed her. She struck fear into the heart of men everywhere, not just because of the male race's justified fear that women talked about them behind their backs, whispering and giggling. Although Ma would never giggle; her laugh, when it came, was like someone slicing their hand on a cheese grater. She would also never wear stilettos; the spindly heels would crack under the pressure.

In Medium Dave's memories of Ma, however he might want to crush them into the cellar of his brain, she always appeared bigger than she was. She wasn't tall, no one ever had enough food to reach over five foot five, but in his nightmares she would tower over him, screaming curses and bringing her hand, knuckles whitening with the pressure she was putting on the wooden bar, down…

Then he would wake up. Every time, he would wake up.

There was a knock on the door. Medium Dave was renting a cheap room in the eaves of a boarding house owned by some sketchy trader who wouldn't let any of his tenants into the stockroom at the back of his shop, probably for fear that they would start snorting the drugs. The door, when thumped, bent inwards and choked out dust onto the threadbare carpet.

He stood up out of bed, having gone to sleep in his only set of clothes, and pulled the door. Banjo lowered his fist, forehead creasing as he waited for the next thought to arrive.

'It's the middle of the night!' Medium Dave hissed.

'Ma wants you,' Banjo said slowly.

Medium Dave threw his hands up in the air. 'Oh, Ma wants me, does she? Well, you can tell Ma-'

'Ma wants you,' Banjo repeated, his words simply showing that their mother had never waited before and probably wasn't going to get into the habit now.

Medium Dave paused. Gods knew he was fed up with being called out by their mother in the middle of the night to assist her in petty crimes and robberies, but the fear of ever being caught in the act was far diminished by imagining Ma's reaction if he didn't come. Apoplectic would only be the start.

'I'll get my boots,' he said glumly, slamming the door.

* * *

The weather was turning cold, although snow didn't even attempt to clean up Ankh-Morpork that night. As Banjo and Medium Dave Lilywhite trudged through the streets, worn leather boots making no sound on the cobbles as they tried to avoid the Watch, they remembered all the times before that they had done this for Ma. Well, Medium Dave remembered, Banjo concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other.

'So, what is it this time?' Medium Dave asked quietly.

'Robbery up in der Turnwise area,' Banjo rumbled, chewing on a piece of tobacco. Cigars involved too much thinking - you had to hold the match and light the cigar at the same time.

'Why does she need us?'

'She sas…' Banjo paused, waiting for a memory. 'She sas dat she only got one pair of 'ands. Can't carry der loot. She's got der horses so we can escape, though, an' we've already dun two houses..'

Medium Dave nodded, and crept on. 'Up in Ankh.'

'Yeah.'

'Why'd she want to go there? She must know about the guard dogs and the Watch and all that.'

'Dunno. Fink she finks we can travel faster than'em.'

Banjo plodded on up to an alleyway and pointed down it. 'She's waitin' down there.'

Medium Dave caught sight of his mother standing in a shadow, horses beside her laden down with bags, her eyes glinting with the promise of some sort of treasure or prize which would be in her pocket before too long. As he walked towards her, making sure not to bang into the crates which would make a helpful noise when tripped over, alerting the Watch, she turned to face him.

'Youse was a long time,' she muttered, handing him a heavy bag.

'Sorry, Ma.' He undid the bag, velvet to cushion the metal implements which filled it, and sighed in admiration. 'Are these Mr Brown's, Ma?'

'You just get along with openin' that window, Davey boy,' she hissed, trying to get a grip on the guttering.

'How'd you get them?'

'Would you ask, lad?' She had managed to gain a foothold on a bracket, which creaked ominously under her weight, and grabbed hold of a window frame.

'Why am I opening this window?' Medium Dave asked, his voice slightly muffled with the lock picks that he was holding between his teeth. The metal taste was making him feel slightly nauseated, remembering broken teeth and noses.

'So we've got somewhere to get out. Give me a leg up, dummy.'

Banjo moved forward and obligingly lifted their mother up with one huge hand so that she was standing on the narrow windowsill, making sure not to look down. She removed something from one of her numerous grimy pockets, spat onto the latch and gently inserted the thin metal strip between the window and the frame, wiggling it around a bit until it popped open. It barely took her thirty seconds, and the window swung out without a sound.

She climbed in and Medium Dave, who had managed to unlock the back door, followed her. With some protesting from the drainpipe Banjo lumbered over the windowsill and fell heavily onto the floor before being kicked back into uprightness by Ma.

They were in some sort of unused nursery, as far as they could tell from the bunny rabbits which adorned the walls, the carpet, the ceiling and most of the furniture, not to mention the pink fluffy toys scattered haphazardly throughout the room. It was a room made by people who had a slight obsession with their children and really didn't understand that what children want, regardless of gender, is a 'sord and a casl and a Giant Rmy with Real Flayming Trches'. It was a room where fun went when it had died.

A bespectacled rabbit stared at Medium Dave and he shuddered. It was following him with cartoon eyes hidden behind those round glasses only worn by maths professors or teenage wizards, and seemed to be criticising him for every person he had punched. If Medium Dave Lilywhite had known his father he would have said that he resembled a stern dad who had caught you with a girl in your room; as he didn't know him he would have just said it was creepy.

Ma Lilywhite crept forward and tested the door handle, which spat dust before creaking open and revealing a wide hallway and the bright light of good quality candles, not the greasy ones that gave a dim glow to most of the Shades.

She shut the door and leaned against it.

'Kids,' she whispered.

Medium Dave raised his eyebrows at what he thought was his mother's amazing lack of observation, but then heard tiny footsteps padding down the hallway, the swish of a nightdress and a hesitant knock on the door.

'Is anyone there?' the little girl called out. They could hear her sucking her thumb.

After a few seconds the footsteps started to walk back away from them and Ma Lilywhite exhaled. She opened the door and walked out into the hallway, boots making no sound on the thick layer of carpet, and gestured to Medium Dave and Banjo to follow her.

Her foot reached the top of the stairs.

'Hello?'

The little girl was stood outside her bedroom door, from which they could see a dim pink light shining through the door. She removed her thumb and glared at them.

'Who're you?' she asked.

Ma Lilywhite had frozen, her foot on the top step, and the child moved forward. 'I'm going to tell Daddy, you know.'

'Don't do that,' Medium Dave said quickly. 'We're…'

'Der Toof Fairies,' Banjo rumbled, and the girl turned to look at him.

'Are you a gwilla?'

'What?' Ma asked, trying to distract the child.

'A gowilla. They go RAAAR and they're big like you.'

'Yes, he's a gorilla,' Medium Dave said quickly, seeing his mother's face gently ignite into Mother Incandescent.

'Can I tell daddy there's a gowilla in the house?'

'No.'

'But he's always wanted to see a gowilla! He said so, he said that mother didn't count…'

'Emily?'

Time seemed to slow down as a door on the other side of the corridor opened, revealing a man too tall for Medium Dave's liking and holding a crossbow far too steadily. The point of it spelt pain very graphically.

Time returned. The man pulled the trigger.

The crossbow bolt zinged off the banister and implanted itself into the wall where Banjo's head would have been if Banjo hadn't taken a step forwards towards the man, who was visibly shaking. Banjo could do that to people just by hulking in the corner.

Ma Lilywhite had taken one step on the stairs before the point swung round and pointed straight at her, only quivering slightly.

'Move and I'll fire,' the man said, rather uncertainly. Holding a crossbow was all very well and good, but not when at least two of the three people you are trying to fire on could rip your head off in one go. Ma Lilywhite could be vicious when she was roused.

Ma Lilywhite moved.

'You try and get to the horses, I'll try to hold 'em off on the stairs, and if anything happens to me, take care of the dummy!' she yelled, jumping over Medium Dave and launching herself towards the man holding the crossbow, who released the trigger.

The arrow flew towards her and went straight through her chest, puncturing through the ribs with a sickening crunch which made Banjo, finally up to speed with events, move forward and punch the lights out of the man. He fell to the floor, unconscious.

'He killed Ma!' Banjo bellowed.

'Banjo, we need to get out of here,' Dave said, pulling his brother's shoulder. 'The Watch'll-'

'He killed Ma!' the huge man whined, picking up the prone form of the late Ma Lilywhite in huge hands. The child was still standing in the middle of the corridor, staring down at the carnage in front of her and the growing red spot by her father's head.

'Banjo!'

The urgent tone of Medium Dave permeated Banjo's consciousness and he half walked, half fell down the stairs, Medium Dave following. He wrenched open the door and stepped out into the freezing cold, flecks of ice biting his skin.

'This is the Watch!'

The yell came from the left as Medium Dave ran to the right, untying the horses and pulling Banjo after him as a dozen Watchmen rounded the corner and ran straight at them. They were running, so they had done something wrong.

'It's the Lilywhites!' a keen eyed constable shouted, and the watchmen at the front slowed down, causing a pile up further back. The distraction was all that was needed for them to duck down an alleyway and vanish from sight as the Watchmen ran past them, hindered slightly by their armour and confusion.

Medium Dave remembered to breathe.

Behind him, Banjo was sobbing over their mother's body, which he had laid reverentially in the one part of the alley lit by a dimly burning oil lamp.

'Banjo?' Dave hissed. Then, when his brother didn't respond, 'Banjo!'

'He killed Ma!' Banjo wailed, tears running down his cheeks.

'Banjo, we need to get back. They'll be back.'

Banjo picked the body up and started walking back through the alleyways in the approximate direction of the Shades, as if he was being powered by an animatronic rather than doing it of his own accord. He tripped over boxes a couple of times and a few droplets of blood fell onto the floor, but he didn't notice them.

Medium Dave followed, and felt nothing.

* * *

'Have you been a naughty boy?' the apparition in his dream screamed, jolting him out of the nightmare.

The bed sheets were twisted and torn from Medium Dave kicking them about, the same as they were every night. He would see her screaming and falling and then dead on the floor, a crossbow bolt sticking up out of her sturdy chest, arms which used to pummel him lying lifeless on the floor.

It was proving very hard to accept.

Ma Lilywhite was gone, never to return apart from in her sons' nightmares. People in the Shades could sleep easier in their beds or on their floors knowing that they didn't face the danger of her when she had had a couple of drinks and knowing that they wouldn't wake up to find the family heirlooms stolen from under the floorboards. The Watch could relax, knowing that they would no longer be attacked by a woman a foot shorter than them but a mile high in pent up aggression and what could pass for cunning.

Medium Dave and Banjo could finally relax.


	51. Above - Buggy Swires

Commander Samuel Vimes sat down at his pile of paper which, if you looked closely, could just be a desk, and picked up the expenses sheet.

The Watch was making more money, yes, ever since the Traffic Department had been ordered to pay their taxes like everyone else, but it also seemed to be spending more money. Things that had always just been bought out of the constables' own pocket like figgins or the ever present tub of tea bags which took two men to lift could now be classified as expenses, and the watch were determined to milk this privilege for all that it was worth. Oh, there were things like armour and wages and training which he had to pay out for, before he had given a bit of his own meagre wages just so that the Night Watch could run, but he was fairly sure that he personally had never paid for anything with a whole crate of whiskey*.

Yes, that was right, it wasn't just Carrot's erratic spelling. A crate of whiskey.

'Captain!' he yelled.

* * *

*He had, however, when he was feeling particularly knurd, paid for a whole crate of whiskey, which then turned into two crates, a bottle full of vodka and a thimble of scumble. After that Mr Cheese had kindly carted him home.

* * *

Buggy Swires, patrolling with Reg Shoe, was very excited.

'An' I can buy me oon birdie,' he was saying in between skips. 'An' yon Commander says I can be used in the traffic patrol down on Broadway, ye ken? An' I'm goin' ta be made Corporal…'

Detritus stopped listening then. Buggy had been going on about his promotion for days now, even when the idea of an Airborne Section had been merely mentioned once by an annoyed Mister Vimes when everyone else was having a drink but he wouldn't let himself.

_'Oh yeah, and what's going to be next in the Watch? An air patrol? Witches and that bloody gnome in the sky?_

It hadn't been a compliment, but Buggy didn't seem to have noticed this. Instead he was utterly convinced that his methods of catching criminals would soon catch on with the other members of the Watch regardless of species or aversion to height or practicality. Finding a buzzard to fit Fred Colon would be an interesting feat.

Detritus came back into focus.

'An' he said that I could buy this buzzard from them Nac Mac Feegle, doon on yonder plains. They ken how to train those birdies, they ain't half difficult.'

'Mister Vimes paying for it den?' Detritus asked maliciously. Vimes hadn't granted his request for a troll powered trebuchet, so he was more than a little cross, especially when Nobby had been granted his request to carry his morningstar underneath his petticoats.

'Yeah!' Buggy said excitedly.

* * *

Vimes held the piece of paper up accusatorily in front of Carrot, who took it and read it. 'Oh, Corporal Swires's receipt.'

'Did I authorise this?'

'Oh yes, sir. You signed the form, look.' Carrot pointed to his signature, written lopsidedly down the page, helpfully.

'But… a crate of whiskey? A _whole_ crate?'

'The Nac Mac Feegles wouldn't accept anything less, I'm afraid. We did try to bargain with them-'

'When you say 'we', Carrot, who do you mean?'

'Me and Buggy Swires, sir.'

Vimes sighed. Whilst Buggy could probably strike a very hard bargain, one that might involve him jumping up and down on your head holding the very expensive sword that Vimes had had to have commissioned to the best armourer in the city, Carrot's approach to bargaining was to try and act cunning then give up and give the people what they wanted and say it was For The Good Of The City. And the scary thing was that it _was_ for the good of the city.

But there was one more question which Vimes needed to ask.

'Bearhuggers?'

'I'm afraid so, sir.'

'Damn.'

* * *

Buggy Swires had been very pleased when Commander Vimes had announced his plans for an Airborne Section of the Watch. Other officers had not been.

It was one of those lovely breaks between drinking coffee and going on patrol where the officers could relax slightly, but then they had been given the note. Angua was poring over the sheet of paper which Vimes had given to her to give to Carrot to give to the Patrician in the hope that it would make tracing it back to him more difficult.

Nobby was standing next to the sink, whistling cheerfully where he was doing the washing up as befits a lady. Angua and Cheery had refused to do it on principle, not just because the soap made Angua's sinuses sting, but they hadn't expected _him_ to take their place. Yes, he had been very helpful in Klatch with all the cooking and he did do the washing after that, but the other officers were getting worried about how long this female phase was going to go on for. He was also wearing a flowery apron. The image was too traumatising to bear.

'What, you mean like broomsticks?' Fred Colon had asked, his brow furrowed.

'I don't know,' Angua replied, turning the paper sideways to read the scrawl of Vimes's handwriting. Bless him, he was even trying to make his handwriting not look like his own.

'I'm not getting on a broomstick,' Colon said solidly, trying to look menacing and mainly looking frightened. 'You hear all sorts of things about broomsticks.'

'I know a thing or two about broomsticks,' Nobby said cheerfully from the sink.

Simultaneously, Colon and Angua's eyes slammed open and they stared at the ceiling, trying to erase those particular images from their minds.

Cheery, though, obviously didn't have their graphic imaginations. 'Like what?'

Colon and Angua shut their eyes.

'Well, it's like maypoles. They're supposed to represent-'

'I should get back on patrol,' Angua said quickly, standing up and almost kicking over the chair.

'Yeah, I should just…you know…' said Colon, the slower thinker of the two, then he hurried off.

Nobby looked at the now slammed shut door with confusion. 'Was it something I said?'

* * *

Buggy Swires and Detritus walked through the doors of the watch house, Detritus looking more than a little cross, and walked into the canteen. Vimes was surrounded by his officers in various stages of annoyance and was looking around desperately.

'Look,' he said, hands waving in annoyance. 'You won't have to get onto broomsticks. We're not going to make you lot go up in the air on a thin stick in control of magic.'

'I know a thing about broomsticks,' Nobby interjected, leering.

The whole room went silent. Vimes blinked a couple of times before erasing that sentence out of his mind.

'For the moment,' he said, his voice slightly hoarse, 'it is only going to be Corporal Swires in the Airborne Division, and he's riding an eagle-'

'Buzzard,' Carrot said cheerfully. Vimes shot him a glare.

'He's only travelling via bird. None of you will be required to get on a broomstick because Vetinari has said so. It's all to do with this bloody Health and Safety nonsense, and apparently it is unsafe to let a load of bl… watchmen up in the air with broomsticks. Have I made myself clear?'

The watchmen grumpily nodded assent and turned away. Buggy moved towards Vimes and tapped him on the shoe.

'Mister Vimes?' he asked. Vimes looked down.

'That's commander to you, corporal.'

'Can I buy another birdie?' Buggy asked hopefully. 'Only it'd be goood fur Morag t'have a bit of a breek now an' again, ye ken?'

Vimes's glare could have melted through glass.

'No,' he said firmly, then turned and walked up the stairs.

* * *

Vimes was sitting outside Vetinari's office, his helmet on his lap and his heart in his mouth.

He had _discussed_ all of this business with Borogravia with the Patrician. He had admitted that he had made many mistakes, a point which the Patrician very kindly did not contradict, he had said that he probably shouldn't have told the girl that he was a cherry pancake and yes, he should have been wearing the ducal uniform when he met with the Zlobenian prince, I don't care if he was a bastard, Vimes, there is such a thing as _protocol_, no, I'm sure that I told Sergeant Angua to remind you of that, I'm sure it must have just slipped her mind…

The door swung open. Vetinari, looking predatory in dusty black, beckoned him in.

'Please have a seat, commander.'

It was a ritual that they went through every meeting. Vimes stayed standing. 'Sir.'

Vetinari sighed discretely and glanced through his paperwork. 'I have a message here from the Borogravian ambassador, commander, regarding a certain member of your squad.'

'From Sergeant Perks?'

'Yes, though I have heard that she's recently been promoted to captain. It is about Corporal Swires.'

Vimes's heart sank, leaving his mouth free to open and shut a couple of times. 'What about Corporal Swires, sir?'

'He is a gnome, yes? And he has been training that buzzard of his well?'

'Morag? Yes, she's especially enjoyed Reg's fingers.'

Vetinari frowned slightly. 'And I am given to believe that buzzards are useful for carrying things.'

'I think Buggy carries an iconograph for the traffic. He's also got a mini clacks tower.'

'I was thinking of more...banal items. Coffee sacks, for instance.'

'Morag could certainly carry a coffee bag, yes, sir. Though I don't know if she's ever had reason to.'

'Let me see if I can jolt your memory, commander. Sergeant Perks says that she often saw a buzzard circling them whilst they were marching. Her sergeant apparently saw a werewolf, but we've discussed this. This buzzard wouldn't happen to be Maudie, would it?'

'Morag, sir. And buzzards are fairly common around that part of the Disc.'

'She says that her brother, who is apparently an excellent artist, drew Morag when she returned back to the Kneck Valley. Perks says that she recognised the buzzard.'

'Well, after a while all birds look the same, don't they?'

'She was carrying a tiny man, Perks says. Now, not all buzzards carry gnomes, do they?'

'The Nac Mac Feegles are widespread, sir.'

'I believe they prefer eagles.'

Damn. 'Couldn't say then, sir.'

Vetinari audibly sighed this time, and his gaze became slightly more pointed. 'I had given you orders, commander, not to influence the battle in any way.'

'Sir.'

'However, dropping a sack full of coffee beans into troops who are desperate for coffee counts as meddling by most people.'

'The officer was a vampire addicted to coffee, sir. You should see the Watch if they have to go without it.'

'Nevertheless,' Vetinari cut in, 'it was irresponsible. I suggest you promote Buggy Swires to sergeant.'

Vimes stared at him in amazement. 'Pardon?'

'He showed initiative and cunning which certainly did not come from the orders of his commander. Because a duke disobeying the orders of their Patrician would be unacceptable, of course.'

You bastard, Vimes thought. 'Sir.'

'I suggest buying him a new saddle, a bridle, and possibly some more ingredients for that concoction he makes to tame them.'

'Know much about bird training, do you, sir?' Vimes said dryly. 'One of your hobbies?'

Vetinari looked surprised. 'No, Vimes, I have neglected my bird studies in recent years, and I've never actually participated in falconry. But I hope to grant Corporal Swires with a little gift.'

'And what will that be, sir?'

* * *

It was not being a good day for Sergeant Buggy Swires.

The eagle flew in through the window of the Watch House, the tiny man on its back clinging on to the feathers for dear life. It had been a difficult journey home for them both, regardless of the fact that they had been patrolling a hundred yards away in Broad Way. Morag was proving a difficult bird to train, and had resulted in several more traffic pile ups due to unfortunate swooping and, on one case, attacking a heggler with her talons.

The crash reverberated through the Yard as the glass smashed onto the floor and a dozen watchmen who had seen the bird coming and Buggy's frantic expression tried to get under the tables.

Then, there was silence. Silence for a brief, blessed second until they heard the stamp of Vimes's boots on the stairs.

'What the _hell_ was that?' he shouted, flinging open the door and surveying his canteen. Then his eyes fixed on the eagle which was helping itself to the biscuits and Corporal Swires, who was lying, dazed, on the floor.

'Buggy?'

Several of the watchmen had regained their verticality and were watching the scene with a bitter pleasure. Most had been attacked by the gnome at some point in their career and none of them thought it was fair that a man six inches tall could beat them in an arm wrestle.

Buggy sat up, spitting feathers. 'Jodie's provin' verra difficult, sir. She's a birdie withoot gears, so she is, verra hard t' control.'

Vimes nodded, glaring at the eagle. The eagle glared back.

'I think I'll have to deecline this gift, sir.'

Vimes nodded. 'And this is the bird from the Patrician.'

'Yep, sir.'

_You utter, utter bastard_, Vimes thought in the privacy of his own head. 'And have you made any progress in training her?'

'Weel, ah can drive her through windows noo, sir.'

'Buggy.'

'Yessir?'

'Listen to me very carefully here, and when you are questioned you weren't listening at all. I want you to fly that bloody bird through the Patrician's upstairs window, but I don't want you to be on it. Fall off just before you smash into it.'

'Oh-kay,' Buggy replied slowly. 'And ye didnae tell me.'

'You've got it. Oh, and until the bill's paid for the window you're demoted to Corporal. Any questions?'

'Am I gonna geet paid fur this?'

'You guess.'

* * *

The crash echoed throughout the palace, bouncing off the dark wooden panels and the old, unused furniture, and there was a faint thud as Buggy Swires landed on the floor and hurried away.

The Patrician ran his fingers gently along the edge of his desk and a tiny drawer slid out soundlessly. From it he picked some unidentifiable sharp thing and moved towards the door, soft leather shoes making no sound on the waxed floor.

He listened for a moment to the trample of footsteps as people ran towards the source of the noise, which he could guess was his bedroom. The door swung open and Vetinari stepped out into an empty corridor, pausing to check that there was no one behind him before walking down it, absentmindedly tapping a couple of the floor tiles with his toes.

It was good to be a paranoid Patrician who made sure that he knew exactly where all the Palace's secret traps were - most of them he had installed himself. It meant you lasted longer than a week. He had encountered several of the Assassins' Guild's more conservative methods, like the poisoned shaving foam which had never fooled anyone, and then they had moved onto the more unorthodox techniques like tipping the end of his pen with arsenic, like he wouldn't know that the pen had been tampered with…

He was fairly sure, and he had a very good memory for this sort of thing, that no one had ever tried to kill him with an eagle.

Jodie, feathers ruffled slightly from her collision with a pane of glass, looked up at him.

'Awk,' she said forlornly.


	52. Below - Death

The edges of Death's billowing cloak, which spread out behind him in a whisper of midnight black, gently stirred the mud on the sea floor, revealing tiny fish which darted away from his skeletal footsteps.

Around him was darkness. Death liked darkness, he was well accustomed to it, but this darkness was a fabric in itself. It wound itself round the bright, eerie lights which were being emitted by undersea creatures with more ears than fins and eyes on spikes and muffled the fluorescent glow; it cloaked Death and all his friends, hiding them from the more sensitive fish which shrank into themselves at any contact, even a passing caress from the threads of seaweed which made the darkness a little lighter for a brief second. Everything seemed to glow down here like it was powered by sheer desperation of staying alive whatever the cost, even when there was nothing there to appreciate it. A flower put forth petals of deep scarlet in the velvet black that would never be seen by even the most enthusiastic of divers, just because it could.

It seemed to him that deep under the oceans where theoretically nothing could exist, life had been so stubborn that it had bluffed with a poor hand and amazingly won through sheer tenacity. The vitality of life fascinated Death. The way things strived to have a purpose, the way that life was an achievement for some and they would celebrate it even if no one else in the entire multiverse wanted to know or even care because they were too wrapped up in their own doings. Animals were selfish things, they never appreciated any work that anything else did, but down here in the depth of the oceans every single scrap of life was treasured, however small, however brief, however beautiful it was.

And every single scrap of life had an end.

He was Death, so he catered for everything. He had seen the demise of thousands of kings, millions of lords and priests who, when it came down to it, hadn't got a clue about what happened next, instead clinging to that faint hope they called faith. And so, because he treasured everything, even these little specks of brightness in the dark would be catered for and looked after, but he had never come across anything as sad as a tiny, bright petalled sea anemone which would never have been admired fading into the unknown.

Sometimes, when he was sick of humanity and the mess and the chaos and their utter stupidity, never being able to notice anything good because of the haze of self-loathing and cynicism that they existed under, he would come down here, sit for a while, and just take in all the life. Pure life, unmarred by fanciful wishes of something greater because people were never content with what they had.

It wasn't good life, as a general rule. Nature has cruel ways; because a fish had more spikes or tentacles or can swim faster than other fish and can extend its jaw, if fish have jaws, around the largest of prey, it would attack a smaller piece of krill which could never swim fast enough, but the fish did it because it had to eat. It was all so simple for them; the world was divided up into predator and prey, they were controlled by their basic instincts rather than consciousness and those funny rules like justice and forgiveness that humanity seemed to have invented without any prior evidence. They could do what they had to in the pure spirit of natural selection purely because they needed to live. Life may have been cruel, but it was beautifully malicious.

Death sighed, but the water didn't stir. He may have picked up human traits, but there were some things he couldn't do.

Sometimes he regretted his career. It wasn't like he had any say in it - the bloody humans had thought that there had to be something to carry them over to the afterlife and the Grim Reaper had been born from their imaginations, just to satisfy them. But sometimes it would have been nice to have a choice between existing for eternity and living for such a short period of time in the grand scheme of things, but actually _living_ rather than this semblance of it that he had been granted.

Death thought he might have enjoyed life. Its complexities, its marvels, the way in which people could make up fantasies without a care in the world and they never believed it would happen. They were cloaked by stories and myths and legends of the way the world should work until they believed that _was_ the way that the world worked. Justice was given out by those who thought that they were controlled by it, when they had even invented the concept from naïve wishes that the world should be just right.

A many tentacled, many eyeballed fish eating a poor defenceless one. Was that right? Did it matter? Did rightness even care, did it even exist? Death had met many anthropomorphic personifications but he had never met Right, even though humanity seemed to have a bit of a fetish with personifying things. He had a sneaky feeling, though, that it would wear one of those ridiculous horse hair wigs and cough a lot, but maybe that was just humanity rubbing off on him.

A lion would never think 'Ooh, I wonder what will collect me when I die?' They thought 'What's that shape doing over there?' or 'Why is my mate attacking a jaguar?' but they never contemplated the afterlife or the symbolism of the harvests. No animal did apart from the rats, but they were just cunning little buggers who had seen a mousetrap one too many times, usually with their heads on the other side of the room. But humans had evolved to _think_, which was a dangerous occupation for many of the population, they had been designed to question how they got here or what their purpose was which was playing havoc with the gods. Gods were fading all over the place, from what Death had heard, just drifting away until some new family needed a god with fewer donations to the church because the price of bread was getting a little too high for Offler the Crocodile God, or some postmaster in Ankh-Morpork needed a lot of money quick and lo and behold, Anoia was back, getting ladles stuck in drawers again. It was an endless cycle, and one that the gods didn't like repeating.

Look at all those monks. Bending time around themselves as if they had invented it, as if it was elastic that could be stretched to their every need. But humans did that anyway, they could make seconds last hours out of sheer boredom; in a world with so much vitality, so much to be amazed by, they had invented _boredom_! How could you look at the sun and look away again without even thinking of what went in to building it, to put it in the precise position so that the Disc didn't boil, leaving red rocks and molten lava behind, or didn't freeze? How was it that life even started? Didn't people just _think_, would it be that difficult? It made Death angry sometimes, the way that people who had been given the greatest of gifts never looked around, never saw how lucky they were, because they were blinded by apathy and a wish to just get one day over with so that they could go back to bed and sleep.

As soon as there had been life, though, there was death. Death had always been there in the deepest fears of an animal's mind, its greatest threat, the darkness which preyed on their souls before the concept of a soul even existed. Bacteria weren't much given to philosophy, but they still feared the end, and only Death would know that amoeba were paranoid deep down that they hadn't been good enough, they had coveted their fellow protoctist's nutrients and they would live forever in a state of watery limbo. They didn't much think about it, they just feared it.

Humans were the ones who had really explored death, which had involved some interesting experimentation and pungent smells. They had seen the harvest and how Death would come for everyone, sweeping across the world and severing souls like a scythe cuts through the golden stems of corn, letting them be treasured, so all of a sudden a scythe had appeared in his umbrella stand instead of the usual sledgehammer. They had figured that as they knew nothing about the beyond and as most of the beyond is black*, Death should be cloaked in midnight darkness and wear a cowl like the priests which they fell down on their knees to, because Death would be the last to judge them. They had got it completely wrong, but it didn't matter, the sentiment had stuck.

In front of him, a lilac fish which glowed in hues of indigo was feasting on coral. Death's hand passed gently through its soul as the predator came, a shark-like creature which shone a sickly green and snapped the blink of purple up, darting away in a wish for more.

It didn't upset him, as such, when things died. It was a part of life, quite literally, albeit one that wasn't an achievement for most. Occasionally, though, he would wonder what the point was; why did a fish whose only contribution to the world was to glow for a few brief seconds, the only sin it ever committed was being smaller, have to die? Who was making the plans?

Humans loved plans, he had realised. You're born, you live according to some timetable which the gods have drawn up before the idea of you even existed, you die, your actions, which are apparently determined by the gods anyway, are judged and they then decide whether you roast in the fiery pits of hell or rise up into clouds. He was just there to point them in the right direction, make sure they didn't freak out and try and attack the gods, ending up in Limbo. They didn't want to think that they actually had a choice in the matter because then if they went wrong they'd have no one to blame it on. It's fate, they could say now, it's the will of the gods. It gave them comfort when bad things happened, but they never attribute good things to the gods. Born hypocrites, designed to be hypocrites through years of trying and discovering that it was actually a good survival trait in a world where deception was the key to pretty much everything.

Death sighed again and aimlessly kicked the ground with his foot, causing a plume of mud to cascade up into the water and fountain back down again. He stood up slowly, bending out of the way of a particularly spiny fish who was glaring ahead with an expression of eagerness and animosity, probably directed at the eel that had just passed Death, and walked into the next world.

Fields of corn spread out before him, rippling in the breeze that only existed in this part of Death's domain. It wasn't even a proper breeze, the corn just moved of its own accord, swaying in a perfectly synchronised dance day in, day out, making no mistakes, not a stalk out of place - Death had never gotten the hang of errors, they were imperfect in a world clearly made by an obsessive personality. Why would you make mistakes on purpose? He liked the corn, it was regular in a world of chaos and it was colour in a world of blacks and drab greys, like the smog hanging over the city in the morning, clouding people's minds.

The sky was black, but there was light. It shouldn't have worked, but those who visited it on the odd occasion where he let anyone in would have sworn that there were different colours of black all lit up by some unknown light source which never faded. It made your eyes hurt, like hospital lamps which shined white regardless of the time of day and leave you with a sense that years have passed and you're still stuck there. And time had stopped, physical dimensions had no meaning here. After all, if Death couldn't break the laws of physics who could?

The world fascinated Death, even if he didn't conform to it. Sometimes he would become desolate and say that he was never going to understand it, so what was the point in trying, but then he would catch sight of the delicate silken wings of an insect, panes of thin glass, thinner than a hair width, reflecting the sunlight off in rainbows. A droplet falling from the sky would make a perfect sphere before crashing down to the ground, symmetry broken forever. Everything came to an end, he of all beings knew that, but sometimes things were too perfect to let go. The sound of a song, the way the light shone off the sea with its oily sheen, the way the corn moved to and fro like a team of dancers all commanded by his thumb. So he had built his domain as a celebration of it, but he could never quite get it right. There was always something artificial about it, but he could never put his finger on what.

Maybe it was the lack of mistakes. In the real world, which could sometimes look more artificial than this one with gaudy sunsets and brilliant green on the spring leaves, there were odd errors which made it seem more human. A leaf with a whole chewed in it or the odd spot of brown which Death, who simply couldn't see the point of imperfections, could never recreate. They gave the impression of life, not just of a blank canvas waiting for someone, anyone, to make their mark on it so that it seemed more realistic. A knothole in a tree, even if it was a mistake, made a tree look more like a tree than a perfect version of it.

Death had never understood this. Humans spent their whole lives trying to simplify things, even inventing things like the Grim Reaper which would take all responsibility out of their hands, and then they went and complained when things were too simplistic. Life wasn't simplistic, though, it wasn't supposed to be. Evolution or the gods or whatever had led to life didn't create it so that humans could simply lie back and have the world deal with their every need, because then there would be no point. It was like those tiny flowers back in the deep sea; they expressed life because they had it, because they knew the value of it. It was special, so it should be used.

There was no life in this garden. It wasn't the absence of colour, it wasn't the way in which everything was designed to perfection, it was just that it gave the air of being painted by someone who had to stare at a brush for a long time until they understood what it was and how it worked and, while they were at it, how it came into being and why it came into being as well. Someone had looked at the face of the world and tried to recreate it. There was no depth.

No one came in, though. No one came to admire the view of the corn field or to marvel at the way the house was acres bigger on the inside. No one came to see him.

Not since Ysabell had left.

* * *

*Now it's mint green, or a sort of beigey colour. No one's really sure, but they'll never admit it.


	53. Incalculable - The Watch

_The Watch runs on its stomach…_

Nobby was lying in what, when the Ramkins had owned Pseudopolis Yard, had been a garden. Now it was something akin to a forest, with bear traps in the lawn and a hacked off lilac tree which, despite Colon and Vimes's best efforts with a chainsaw and a lit bottle of oil respectively, wouldn't stop blooming in May. Whippy suckers had climbed up the back fence, persistently surviving despite the lead paint.

It was a summer day, he was off duty, and he was planning to sunbathe. He had unearthed a set of stone steps which led down to the garden and was lying on them with his skirt rolled up to just above his knees, a sight that no one should have to see, and his spindly legs which, unlike his face, were blank white, exposed to as much of the sun which could filter through the Ankh-Morpork smog. It was barely twenty degrees, but he was making the most of it.

The back door opened and he heard what sounded like Mister Vimes's boots coming down the stairs. A shadow blocked out the sun for a brief moment.

'Nobby?' Vimes asked after a long pause.

'Yessir?'

'What…what are you doing?'

'Well, sir, I'm trying to get a tan, and todays the first sunny day we've 'ad in a while. Well, the first day it ain't been rainin' too.'

'Right.' There was another long pause whilst Vimes desperately tried not to contemplate the dress and failed. 'Nobby, your attire…'

'I object to that sir, I feel I've always kept myself in good shape.'

'No, not _a_ tyre. I mean your clothing. Are you still wearing the dress?'

'Ah, but this is a different dress. It was gettin' a bit hot for taffeta, and I'm not sure that red's my colour.'

'I was thinking more the dresses as a whole, corporal, rather than that particular one. You do know what they call men who wear dresses, don't you?'

'Sergeant Angua asked me that too, sir. An' I know the answer now.'

'Go on.'

'It's priests, sir. You know, they've got them robe thingies.'

Vimes shut down the mental images quickly. 'Right. Yes, Nobby, you are correct. Actually, I was here to see if you know where Fred is.'

'He's up with the washerwomen, sir.'

'The who?'

'You know, that gang of traders and old watchmen and the like who tell him everything? Them.'

Fred Colon's main expenditures came from pencils, being an over enthusiastic sharpener and refusing to use any pencil which was more than half shorter than it was when he had nicked it from Vimes's office during Vimes's tea breaks. However, a significant portion of his budget, larger than the Traffic and Airborne Divisions put together, was used on doughnuts. And not the sort of doughnuts liberally sprinkled with icing sugar or filled with custard, which was just a stupid thing to do to a doughnut, but these were stodgy and sat in the stomach like a bowling ball. They were made out of a hundred per cent fat, which came in the form of grease and dripping jam and the odd sheen which was left on the crumpled paper bags

Vimes had suffered through a few of these doughnuts before when it had been a _really_ long day and never, ever wanted to repeat the experience. But these men that regularly frequented Colon's office seemed to actually like them, they relished the rush of grease and the sticky fingers and that _I will never eat another gram again_ feeling that only Sham Harga's doughnuts could capture, and they came back for more. They would have been Cut-Me-Own Throat Dibbler's favourite customers if they had been suicidal.

As it were, they went to the Lemonade Factory instead, although the traffic had slowed since Fred removed the plate from his door.

And they gossiped. God did they gossip. They were like all of Vimes's men on the street but they came to the Lemonade Factory for free, or at least for the expense of some crappy doughnuts, and they talked and talked and talked. And Fred, whose memory was superb when it had to be, remembered everything and told Vimes who kept an eye out for particular criminals. It was like a well-oiled machine of information passing through the streets and culminating in the mass which was Fred Colon, who was just good with people.

But like a machine bits of it went boing occasionally.

Fred Colon had decided to go on a diet.

It was the missus, he said. She had said that she didn't want to be married to a fat lump, which Fred Colon had been since Vimes had known him and presumably before, so she must have _married_ a fat lump not seen Fred grow into one, which brought into question her taste in men. Whatever the reason, Fred had had a serious knock to his self-confidence.

Vimes knocked tentatively on the door, noticing how it was uncharacteristically quiet.

'Fred?' he called.

There was no reply.

Vimes pushed open the door and was faced with a dejected looking Fred Colon who was staring at the last doughnut.

'I didn't have one,' he told Vimes. 'I was _good_. But now…'

Vimes nodded. One would be too many. He patted Fred on the shoulder reassuringly.

'Fred, we need you to eat these doughnuts. The Watch pretty much operates because of doughnuts.'

Colon's eyes brightened slightly as he looked up at Vimes. 'So it's my duty to the city to eat the doughnut.'

Vimes wondered how he would get that around the Patrician. 'Yes, Fred.'

'So, technic'ly…'

'Yes, Fred?'

'Technically it wouldn't be breakin' this bloody diet, would it? Because I'm required to do it for work.'

'Yes, Fred.'

'So I can tell the missus that it's my civic order to consume this doughnut.'

'You been reading books again, sergeant?'

Colon flushed slightly as he picked up the doughnut and examined it. 'She said I wasn't educated enough. Said I should do some learnin' an' when I tolds her I didn't have the time she said I was fat again.'

Vimes nodded. It was a tough life, being married.

Fred, after taking one last look at the whole, unmarred doughnut which glistened unhealthily in front of him, bit straight into it. The jam rolled straight down his chins.

* * *

All Jolson waddled down the street, causing paving tiles to crack underneath his surprisingly small feet, encased in chequered shoes which bore the stains of a thousand dropped blobs of mashed potato and gravy. People made way for him unconsciously.

Finally, with quite a lot of panting and general wobbling, he arrived at the Watch House and pushed open the door, grinning at a rather strained looking Fred Colon, who was trying to deal with an irate civilian of the sort that the Watch would happily lock up in the cells under the 'Being Bloody Annoying and Rich Act of whenever you want', even if it would be a little crowded in their four cells.

'No, Mr Blenkinsop,' he was saying slowly in his special 'Talking to bigwigs' voice, 'I cannot prosecute your wife because she didn't say that you were her first cousin when she married you.'

Mr Blenkinsop, who All recognised as being a particularly picky customer who wanted skimmed milk and butter in his mashed potato, uttered a string of unidentifiable words with misplaced 'h's. All sat down on one of the Watch's hard backed chairs, designed to make people wonder whether they really needed their assistance, and watched the show.

Fred Colon was looking perplexed. 'Surely you must've known?' he asked. 'I mean, there's always family get togethers where all the family including your batty aunt come along and complain about the food. Surely you must've met her?'

'Hwell, I hwas under thee impression that she hwas my _second_ cousin.'

A young, spotty constable came through the door, obviously looking too relaxed for Fred Colon who quickly handed Mr Blenkinsop over to him without a word. Then he caught sight of All and grinned brightly.

'Good to see you, All,' he said, gesturing that All should make his way to the duty desk. 'Now, what can I be doin' for you?'

'Well, Fred, it's a sort of family issue.'

Colon's face creased slightly as he frowned. 'I'm not all that good with family business, All,' he said hesitantly. 'I mean, me and the missus-'

'No, Fred, it's not that sort of issue. See, I was wonderin' if you was recruiting.'

'Why?'

'It's Precious. She's been fired from the waitressing 'cos apparently she weren't skinny enough.' All Jolson sniffed haughtily, believing that the best waitresses had to be a little on the chubby size to show that the food was decent enough to eat. It was a policy that he had always stuck by.

'That's a shame, All. 's like I say, we're all born equal so's we should all be treated equal.'

'Do you say that, Fred?' asked All, fully aware of Colon's wide reaching prejudices. No one took any notice of them any more simply because they were ever present; he never actually realised that he was doing it anymore.

'Of course, All. Got to work for equality.' He looked around furtively, and, seeing that the Watch House was all but empty, leaned closer to All. 'I don't personally see what all the fuss's about, but Mister Vimes was getting right tetchy about it the other day.'

'Ah.'

Fred leaned back. 'Well, we've always got room for new recruits and Detritus's been getting a little bored recently, so I suppose we could fit it in.'

'Thanks, mate. I owe you one.'

All turned away before he sensed that Fred Colon had something to say, a certain modulation to the breath or a glimpse of a grin as Fred spotted a giant suet pudding that he wanted to dive into.

'Well, the way I see it, All, is I've done a bit for you over the last few years.'

All's heart sank, which wasn't easy with the friction added by the cholesterol.

'And I think that I could use up all those favours now.'

All sighed. 'What do you want, Fred?'

'I think two tubs of that honey ice cream might go a long way in persuadin' me to talk to Mister Vimes. I mean, I'm not being funny, but he doesn't like us to show preference when we're hiring, so I could just sorta slip it in one day…'

'What else do you want, Fred?'

'A box of doughnuts would be nice, I'd have to admit. Sustain me through these tough hours at the office.'

All decided not to comment on the fact that Fred Colon spent most of his hours sitting in a chair in the duty office, but that remark might have come back to bite him on the arse*.

'I'll see what I can do, Fred.'

'I've always said you were a good man, All. Very generous.'

'Yeah, yeah, sure, sure, whatever. Just come down when you get off shift and I'll have them for you.'

As All left he contemplated how much easier, not to mention cheaper, it would have been to just go to Mister Vimes.

* * *

*But it might have to have good teeth, because there would be a chair in the way.

* * *

Goriff's son had dropped around a whole box of chicken korma sauce, a crate of poppadoms and several massive bags of boiled rice, not to mention Sergeant Angua's portion of vegetable curry and Corporal Visit's Genuine Omnian Stew, authorised by Om himself. Bending under the weight of it, he had dropped it on the Watch House's floor and breathed a sigh of relief.

'Grub's up!' Fred Colon shouted. 'Thanks, lad,' he told Goriff's boy, who had walked off with a dollar's tip from the petty cash.

Some of the constables were drafted in to help lift the supplies into the canteen where Captain Carrot, as official curry distributer, was standing with a giant ladle. The rice was poured into a bucket, specially put by for these occasions, and the officers formed a line with their tin plates.

When everyone was served and the poppadoms had been distributed accordingly Carrot sat down, handing Angua's smaller box to her with a plate of rice. There was a definite unconscious hierarchy there; the top officers in the Watch - Vimes, Carrot, Angua, Cheery, Colon and Nobby (Detritus didn't usually eat curry) - sat at a table slightly closer to the kettle which automatically gave them more power. Carrot had been elected the unofficial hot water pourer as well, simply because there were always fights over the last tea bags. Lower ranks sat below them, even if Corporal Nobbs was sitting above his status, and finally, next to the draughty window next to the office so that if anyone came they would be sent out, were the new recruits. Vimes considered it a way of enforcing people's status so that they knew who not to mess with whilst Carrot thought that it was based on a mutual respect for rank and social position, but that was just typical.

The room was filled with the scrape of metal cutlery on metal plates, a sound to make those with sensitive nerves shudder and cry, and no one talked as the meal was demolished. Hungry watchmen only have one aim in mind; to eat and eat and eat, regardless of flavour or texture or whether the food just winked at you. Rice was swallowed down hastily with the help of a tankard of beer that was rolled in from the Bucket.

It was a ritual on the first Thursday of every month, unless that Thursday was full moon. Every officer, regardless of rank or station, would come into Pseudopolis Yard and have a curry. It cost Vimes a bloody fortune, but it was worth it to know that the officers all had a special kind of loyalty only achievable by food and that they would never insult the Klatchians. Goriff's boy, even if he did have a brief spell as a copper in Klatch before deciding he missed the city too much, was worshipped by those watchmen whose only good meal of the day was a Dibbler sausage inna bun.

Sixty forks were dropped onto plates and sixty officers settled back into their chairs with a contented smile. Vimes looked around the room appreciatively.

'It's amazin' what a good bit of grub can do,' Nobby said philosophically.

'Yeah,' Fred agreed. 'Look at 'em all, all worshippin' us like we're saints 'cos we're in control of the food.'

'Carrot's in control of it.'

'Yeah, but we're sitting next to it.'

There was a pause whilst they all considered the power of food and, in Vimes's case, whether it could be used as a weapon, until Nobby spoke up. 'Angua, why have you left something on your plate?'

Angua blushed as the table craned to look at her plate and what even she had found inedible, though it was probably due to embarrassment rather than genuine horror.

'It's a carrot,' Carrot stated, picking it up and examining it.

'Yes,' Angua said blankly.

'I didn't know you didn't eat carrots, Angua,' Nobby said evilly, grinning under his wig which he was still refusing to take off. Angua shot him a glare.

'It's raw,' Carrot said. 'It's just a whole carrot.'

'It's _oiled_,' Cheery said. Vimes turned away, his shoulders shaking.

Carrot pursed his lips then set it back down again. 'Must have been a mistake,' he said simply.

Vimes raised his eyebrows as Nobby choked and Colon offered him a glass of water, which was all his sympathy would extend to. Innuendo and euphemisms were commonplace among the people of the Watch, being mostly made up of young men, although one glance from Sergeant Angua would make them revise the gestures down an inch or two.

_One big, happy family_, he thought with a certain amount of malice, but also quite a bit of pride. And you can't have a true family without decent food and a good helping of innuendo.


	54. Wire - The Watch

**Again, seem to have forgotten this chapter. Very sorry :)**

* * *

**Samuel Vimes**

Dear Sybil and Young Sam (even if you're old),

Well, I've introduced this policy of writing a letter to the person you care about so that if someone in the Watch dies they at least get a special note delivered to their families rather than my standard 'He was a good copper' treatment. To be honest, there are only so many variations of that phrase.

So, where to start. I love you. Sybil, I know I was stupid on occasion and put my work before my family but I didn't, well, I didn't know how lucky I was until I almost lost you. And Sam, please don't become a copper. Well, do what you want, but I wouldn't advise it. The normal pay is crap (sorry, Sybil). I think the time I've been the most scared in all my life was when I saw that little deep down dwarf going into your nursery, Sam, even if you don't remember it. I'm glad you don't remember it, or you would have learnt some adult words quite quickly. Or maybe it was when that bastard Stratford tried to get you, and again I'm glad you don't remember that because no one's first memory should be of a huge knife.

Sam, don't read this next bit, it's going to be soppy.

Sybil, thank you. Thanks for dealing with me and seeing something behind the alcohol and the tattered boots and the grimy armour, even when I did turn up drunk on your doorstep all those times. Thanks for making me the sandwiches and always making sure I had a handkerchief and darning my socks even though you didn't have to. Thanks for the bacon, even when there was too much lettuce and tomato and I know now that it's good for me, I just don't like for having the kindness to like everyone in the Watch, even Nobby, and for never blaming them for taking me away when you wanted me instead and you deserved my time. Thanks for the marriage and the love which I don't deserve, I've never deserved for making me into a slightly better person and never, ever asking what had happened, because that would have ruined it. We were now, that was past.

So, if you're reading this, I'm dead or Angua's broken into my office again. If it's the latter, tell her I've read hers.

(I haven't)

I love you, I always will love you. Sybil, if you let anything happen to Sam I will haunt you; Sam, if you let anything happen to your mum I'll haunt you. Either way, I might be forced to come back as a zombie, and according to Reg it does nothing for your sex life.

Love, Sam/Dad. See you soon.

* * *

**Carrot Ironfoundersson**

Dear, Angua

If your reading this, I am most probably dead, although make sure you have checked my pulse first as Reg has some terrible stories about that.

I'm not very, good at righting letters, as you know but I will try, to do my best. If it doesn't do enough then remember the good times. There were a lot of them, pretty much every moment since I met you. People say that it was destiny and storybooks but I think it was us doing it and that, stories had no part to play in it, otherwise it wouldn't be real.

I love you and I always will, even if Reg says emotions are tough after your Dead. I wish I could have helped you more with all sorts of things, but you've always said to ignore you when you get mad so usually I trie to, but it is hard. You know I don't, care if you're a werewolf even though other people might because I know you don't want to be a werewolf and its better not to be reminded of it all the time. I've met your family, maybe by the time you've read this youll have met, mine but if not then I'm sure they would have loved you. They always wanted me to be happy and now I am.

It's short, I know, but that's all I want to say. You made me happy, I love you, and don't ever think that I'm dead (providing I, am see above) because of you. You never hurt me, and I hope I never hurt you.

Love, Carrot.

* * *

**Angua von Uberwald**

Dear Carrot,

I don't want to write a letter to you, even if Mister Vimes forced the pen into my hand and gave me a sheet of paper and is now reading this over my shoulder.

Okay, he's gone. So, what I really want to say is thank you. You've put up with me, gods know how, if I were you I would have killed me. I've ranted at you and screamed at you and hurt you but you're always still there and you always seem to know what to do. It's a gift, that is. Don't waste it.

According to this, I'm dead. You've seen me dead before so just wait a while before opening this just in case. Also, leave a dress next to my grave, it was embarrassing last time.

I'm straying from the point because I don't want to say the point. I love you, and there are all sorts of things which I would have loved to have done with you, but it doesn't matter. We're happy now. Hopefully, by the time you read this, we'll have moved in together, as I don't want to have died before next Tuesday.

Oops, Mister Vimes is back. I thought you had told him?

But you made me happy even when I ran away or I screamed at you or my brother broke your arm, and that sort of thing doesn't make me too popular. You didn't care whether I was a werewolf, you just let me get on with it and glared at anyone who tried anything on. I don't know what I'd have done without you, most of the time; I could have run away a thousand times from a thousand different places if I didn't have something to go back to.

If I'm dead, congratulate the person who did it. It's bloody hard to kill a werewolf. But don't suffer, don't spend the rest of your life in mourning. I know you won't forget me, but try to. If I'm dead, let me go.

I love you, thank you so much. You'll never know how much until you read this.

Love, Angua.

P.S. Mister Vimes, move away from Carrot's shoulder. Thank you.

* * *

**Fred Colon**

Dear Emma,

This letter should be given to you if I die on duty, but if it isn't please let someone at the Watch house know about it.

Thank you for the notes and the breakfasts. I know that the backs of envelopes aren't the best place to have a marriage but we made it work, didn't we? We were happy, and we always had a warm dinner.

It was hard, sometimes, not being able to see you if I was on nights all the time, but now Mister Vimes is going to give me some extra time off because my knees are aching and I'll be able to see you. I realise that this will mean nothing if I'm dead but thank him for me.

I've still got that little picture of you and the kids in my wallet, you know, the one where Johnny's pulling the face and Martha's crying? It always reminds me of you and me when they were little and how they would always be so happy to see me because you were so happy to see me.

Not many people could have made a marriage work with notes, but I've taught Johnny how to cook breakfasts if you get this. He won't want to, especially not now he's living in Pseudopolis, but make him do it anyway.

Love you,

Fred.

* * *

**Nobby Nobbs**

Dear Fred,

I was gonna write this to Verity but the last time she saw me she only threw a little sardine at me so I fink I've done somethin. Don't ask me what. Wimmen are funny like that.

Thank you for bein good to me when I was a kid and not takin the spoon back off me even though I know Knock told ya to. And you helped me set my arm again cos mum did it wrong the first time and you helped make the wax badge an then when we came back from the fightin you taught me all about bein in the Watch an all about where to hit people where it don't make a mark an useful stuff like that. An then you've helped me learn a lot of new stuff like about pumice stone an Death who is defnit'ly not a Susan even though he looks like one. When I was a nob but not a nob you helped me get through it and spent all the money on pints of gin at the Bucket even though you didn't have to.

If you have to have a new partner when I'm gone I hope Mister Vimes'll give you lots of desk duty cos Visit don't have a partner at the minute an no one deserves that. Also, say thanks to Angua for helpin me with Tawneee and my dresses, and thanks to Mister Vimes for lettin me stay an helpin me when I was a nob but only temporarily.

Best of luck, mate

Nobby

* * *

**Detritus**

Dear Ruby an Brick,

Dis lettre will come to you if someone has managed to finish me off, if so please give em a clip round der ear.

I will always remember der first time I saw you, Ruby, wen you was singin dat song down at Holy Wood an my head went funny an den you hit me with der rock and den my head went black and I knew I had to hit you back. And den we got married and we adopted you, Brick, and den we was even happier.

Brick, you got to stay off der Slab and der Scrape and der Slice an you gotta tell those other troll kids not to go within a barge pole of dem things because dey are Dangerous an your mother's gotta hell of a punch on her, which I have been privy-ledge to have felt. We did not fink we could have any pebbles which would make us very sad but den we found you and your mother (adopted) does not want to lose you.

Be nice to dwarfs, Brick, and listen to Mister Vimes (but you must call him Commander, it is a fing called Respect). Be you, Ruby, becus you are der love of my life an I will love you forever like der stars, which I do not get but Sergeant Colon told me to put dat in.

Detritus

* * *

**Cheery Littlebottom**

Dear everyone at the Watch,

I don't really have anyone especially special, so this letter can go to all of you, even if someone has to help Detritus with the difficult words.

Thank you for not going crazy when I started to wear make up or earrings or a skirt (although I saw Mister Vimes's face). Angua gave them to me, so in the history books you can say that it was her fault or her contribution, depending on which way history's going at that point. I suppose it depends on who's writing the book.

Mister Vimes, thank you for making me sergeant and listening to me and treating me like I was important. It really meant a lot, so thank you. And thank you for letting me do the chicken noises.

Angua, thank you for giving me the girly stuff and I'm sorry about the silver vest, I hope you've forgiven me. I'm fine with you being a werewolf now, and not all werewolves are bad. I learned that from you. Also thanks to Sally and Tawneee (even if she isn't in the Watch) for introducing me to sticky drinks, if you're reading this it's my round.

Detritus, thanks for looking after me and threatening those dwarfs in Uberwald. I'm a dwarf and you're a troll but it's never mattered, so thank you. Best of luck with Brick.

Igor, it's been an honour, though don't let those tomatoes out again. Best of luck with the potatoes.

All the rest of you, you've been amazing. Properly amazing. Thanks for giving me desk duty on the difficult cases and always listening to me even when I blow the old privy up (which I'm sorry about, it doesn't say open the windows in my book). My nail varnish can be shared between those who need it.

Cheri x

* * *

**Dorfl**

Dear Gladys,

I Have Greatly Enjoyed My Time Spent In Your Company, And Believe That You Are, At The Moment, My Closest Companion. Mister Vimes Has Encouraged Us To Write Letters To Those Who Are Precious In Our Lives, And Although I Do Not Have To Treat Anyone As Superior To Another Due To Prejudice Being Morally Wrong I Feel That Our Relationship Has Made My Life More Valuable (As Much As It Can Do, As Our Lives Are Fundamentally All The Same When It Comes Down To Physicality).

During My Time In The Watch I Have Learnt Many New Skills And Feel That I Have Become A Credit To Golemkind, And For That I Would Like For You To Thank Mister Vimes For Allowing Me A Tongue And To Be A Free Golem. Of Course, You Can Make Your Own Decisions Because You Have Free Will, But I Would Be Grateful If You Would Oblige Me In This Matter. I Would Also Be Grateful If You Would Thank Captain Carrot For Buying Me And Making Me A Free Golem. Also, I Would Like To Give One Last Argument To Constable Visit So I Have Written Down My Thoughts On Religion So That He May Read Them If He Has No One To Discuss Religion And Life With.

Any Money That I May Have Collected May Be Given To The Golem Trust, Run By Miss Adora Belle Dearheart, So That My Earnings May Be Used To Help Free Other Members Of Our Race, Providing That They Want To Be Freed.

Dorfl

* * *

**Visit-The-Ungodly-With-Explanatory-Pamphlets**

Dear Smite-The-Unbeliever-With-Cunning-Arguments, my friend and companion on this noble quest to preach the word of Om to the infidels,

I have greatly enjoyed our outings together and our achievements in spreading Om's beliefs around this godforsaken town (in this case the enjoyment is not sinning because it is completely devoted to Om). Even though at times it was as difficult as Brutha wandering through the desert we persevered and we succeeded in converting many people to Omnianism, if only temporarily. As Om has said, it is better to persevere and explain than give up (_The Book of Ossory, Chapter 23, Verse 5)_

After I am dead and have arrived in the Gardens of Om I shall put in a good word for you. I will take pleasure in sitting in His hand and being able to stare in marvel at our god, and I sincerely hope that you will join me soon.

Do not be discouraged if I am taken to Heaven - Om has a plan for us all and it is your destiny to continue spreading the word of Him. Visit Pastor Mightily-Praiseworthy-Are-Ye-Who-Exalteth-Om Oats for guidance and another companion, who I am sure will support your quest.

Sincerely,

Visit-The-Ungodly-With-Explanatory-Pamphlets (Corporal)

* * *

**A.E. Pessimal**

Dear Mister Vimes (I am privileged to be able to address you as such),

Thank you for the chance, and thank you for letting me be a copper even when I'm too short and too logical to understand much of it. As you know, I've always wanted to be a policeman, and you finally gave me that opportunity when you could have seen me as an annoying inspector from the Patrician. I have learnt a great many things, including the necessity of Nobby Nobbs.

It has been a pleasure to work for you. If I am dead, let me have died me valiantly, teeth outstretched, running towards a troll in a melee. It was the best moment of my life, and I will treasure the memory forever.

You can call me A.E.

* * *

**The Librarian**

Ook,

Ook ook. Ook ook.

Ook, Ook.


	55. Landslide - Granny Weatherwax

**DISCLAIMER: Lyrics for the Hedgehog Song taken from **

* * *

The mountains rumbled high above the Copperhead mines. Slowly, stone by stone, tiny pieces of gravel started to roll down the hills, picking up larger rocks and boulders and speed as it fell straight towards Lancre. It was a landslide where all the boulders had a common aim, they all bowed down to a single force - gravity.

No, two forces. Call it narratavium, seeing as that was what controlled most of the Discworld. Maybe there was a purpose to its fall, maybe it was supposed to happen. Maybe the dwarfs set it off in one world, maybe it was the gods, maybe it was that monster called Fate.

Or maybe it was just a landslide. That was the most likely option, even if it wasn't the most convenient one.

The landslide crashed and screamed through the houses, crushing everything in its path - houses which had stood for hundreds of years, trees, barns, the clacks tower which had alerted whoever was watching that there was a really big load of rocks heading straight towards them and that they should move out of the way.

It was the middle of the night. No one saw.

* * *

Granny Weatherwax sensed the rumble of the landslide from her cottage above Bad Ass, but had seen it rolling down the Copperhead Mountains through the eyes of a helpful eagle. After returning to her body and placing a tiny piece of steak out for the bird, she tried to jump start her broomstick.

'Bugger,' she muttered as it stayed resolutely attracted to the ground. She flung it over her shoulder and started sprinting towards the village.

No one could run like Esme Weatherwax, at least not when she was young. She could outrun the wind, sometimes she could outrun the sunrise as light sloshed over the hills, chasing the night away. But now she was old, well, older, and her knees were giving her gyp. She may not have been running as fast as she used to, but by the creaking of her joints she was giving it her all.

Finally she arrived at Lancre, panting and flushed red, to see the destruction that had engulfed the village.

Mud and gravel and boulders had smashed into houses, knocking down trees and scattering roof tiles around. As she lifted up a section of wall, ignoring how her shoulders complained, she heard a groan coming from the house next door.

'Pull us out, will you, Esme?'

Nanny Ogg's disembodied voice floated out of the rubble, and Esme grappled around in the bricks. Finally, she caught a glimpse of Gytha's bright red stockings, grimaced, and pulled her out feet first.

After spluttering and coughing for a couple of minutes whist Esme rooted around in the rubble to see if there was anyone else there, Nanny Ogg managed to right herself and pulled the ever present bottle of scumble out of her knickers.

'Want some?' she asked pleasantly, holding out the bottle to Granny Weatherwax.

'Gytha, there's someone down here.'

Three marriages and dozens of suitors had given Nanny Ogg thighs and arms like steel, and as she pulled a wooden beam away someone grabbed her hand. With no effort at all, it seemed, she wrenched the woman free, who lay on the ground panting.

'Want some?' she asked, holding the bottle out again. Nanny Ogg was of the firm opinion that there was no such thing as 'too early in the morning' when alcohol was concerned, a philosophy which had never been wrong yet. The woman seized it and gulped it down, wincing as the scumble killed several of her brain cells.

'My kid's down there?' she gasped.

'What's their name?'

'Steph. Stephanie.'

Nanny looked over to Esme, who shrugged. 'Stephanie?'

'Yoo hoo!' Nanny yelled in tones that could melt glass. 'Anyone in there?'

There was a coughing noise, and Esme caught a glimpse of someone's hair. 'Is she blonde?' she asked.

'Yeah. Can you see her?'

'Might be her.' Esme lay down on the floor and stretched her arm out towards the patch of hair that she could see, feeling the warmth under her fingers with some relief. 'Stephanie?'

There was another cough, and someone moved the rubble underneath Granny. Gytha helpfully grabbed her ankle whilst passing a paper bag to the woman, who was starting to hyperventilate, and Esme reached out further.

Finally, she managed to get hold of the girl's hair, and then her jaw, so that she could pull her out. The mother grabbed her child until Esme prised her off.

'She needs air,' she said, lying the girl on her back and breathing into her mouth.

The girl opened up her eyes and glared at the witch. 'I can breathe, you know.'

'Huh.' Granny Weatherwax sat up and glared at her. 'Could've said.'

'Esme, I've found another one!'

Shooting one final glare at the girl, who in her opinion was a waste of oxygen and just a bag full of teenager held together with arrogance, Granny turned round to Gytha who was struggling to lift a tree trunk of a house.

'No one could have survived that, Gytha.'

'Tell that to them buggers who are still in there, then,' Nanny Ogg panted, finally managing to roll the tree trunk into the middle of the road so that all rescue efforts could then be blocked off.

Granny took off her cloak, a sight astonishing in itself, and crawled down into the rubble of the house. Smoke and dust clouded her eyes and she blinked in the darkness to get some idea of where she was. Then she heard a cough from her left.

'Anyone there?' she called, trying not to choke on the fumes.

There was another cough as a reply and she pulled away a pile of mud and stones to reveal a familiar face in the dirt.

'Hey, you're that dwarf who kept followin' us in Genua!'

'Madame, I am pleased to make your acquaintance,' Casanunda said politely, holding out a hand. 'Now can you please get me out?'

'You was makin' a move on Gytha,' Granny said, her eyes narrowing.

Casanunda drifted off into a reverie about his encounters with Nanny Ogg until Granny snapped her fingers in front of his nose. 'Come on, then.'

She grabbed a gloved hand and yanked the dwarf out of the rocks, dumping him on the floor so that he could brush himself off and set about repairing his wig. Turning away, she saw Gytha headfirst half way down a hole, only her stockings visible.

'I need a bit of help, Esme,' she said, spitting out a mouthful of dust. 'It's provin' a bit tricky, if you see what I mean.'

'Who is it?'

'Greebo.'

'Oh, for gods' sakes, Gytha, he's a bloody demon. If he can't survive this no one can.'

Nanny Ogg's head rose reproachfully from the depths of the fallen in house. 'That's not great to say, Esme, when there's people around. 'sides, he's turned human again.'

'Oh, gods.' Granny crouched on the floor and peered over the side of the crater.

Yes, Greebo was there. He was also human and, even though he was trapped underneath a fallen beam and his hair was covered in chalk dust he managed to exude this air of sexuality which could permeate through lead if it needed to. It was the way he swaggered whilst sitting down.

Granny blinked, fully aware that you shouldn't be having inappropriate feelings about your best friend's cat.

Nanny Ogg had managed to get a grip on Greebo's arm and he was clawing himself out from beneath the fallen piece of wood, lifting it up as if it were a mere stick and not a six foot long half an oak tree. Damn cats, Esme thought. They'll do bloody anything to get attention, even if they're humans.

Behind her the villagers were forming a huddle; initially supposed to be a queue but no one wanted to be at the front. She quickly counted heads, and was surprised to see that all those she thought should be there were there.

Greebo had emerged and changed back into feline form as she was counting the people, so no one noticed him slink away with an embarrassed look on his face.

'Gytha,' she called. 'Anyone you see missin'?'

Nanny Ogg, who knew the villages a lot better than Granny Weatherwax, glanced over them. 'Nope. Mind you, someone oughta see that Maisie Drover's got somewhere to sit, it's nearly her time.'

A chair was duly found and a heavily pregnant girl placed onto it carefully. Nanny Ogg reviewed them carefully.

'Magrat should have some room up at the castle, shouldn't she?' she asked, turning round to face Granny Weatherwax. No mention was made of Verence, that inconsiderate detail in the world of witching. Still, he had been useful at times, and had a bowel shaking loyalty to them achievable only by those who have been rescued from hell _by_ hell.

Granny Weatherwax sniffed. As someone who had lived in her poky cottage with three rooms and a tree growing up through the middle of it for as long as she cared to remember she didn't like the idea of a witch living in a castle, with thousands of rooms and winding corridors. She could get up to all sorts of mischief like that.

'Think so,' she said brusquely, trying to brush enough dust off her dress to make it resemble black. At the moment all she could hope for was a grubby white.

Still, they were all alive. But that wasn't the end of it.

* * *

Magrat and Verence had bedded down the village in some of the castle's old rooms and had unearthed blankets and pillows from bedrooms long forgotten, grey and musty with age but still serviceable. Nanny Ogg had decided to improve morale in her own way and, after the dinner had been served, had set about the momentus task of teaching the village the hedgehog song.

'Now,' she said, jumping on top of the table. 'It's simple. Repeat this after me.'

A couple of the mothers hastily hurried their children out of the way.

Granny Weatherwax, striding over the castle's lawn, could hear the ill-fated attempts and smiled grimly into the distance.

'You can bugger the bear if you do it with care.'

'You can bugger the bear if you do it with care,' the village sang in various shades of embarrassment.

'In the winter,' Nanny Ogg warbled whilst panes of glass shattered behind her, 'when he is asleep in his lair.'

Granny was half a mile away before the sound of Nanny's voice could no longer be heard and a pregnant silence filled the air.

No one had died, she knew that. But that wasn't the point. People could have died, as it was they had lost everything, and someone should pay, be it the gods or whatever controlled the weather or the people who she suspected of causing the landslide in the first place.

She didn't trust the dwarfs. No one in their right minds would trust the dwarfs, scheming, self-serving gold loving little buggers that they were, but although Granny Weatherwax had met many dwarfs, even spoken to some, she still didn't like them. It was the way that they were completely focussed on one goal - gold, or sometimes iron - and everything they did was towards that. It made their minds very hard, but very simple, like an arrow point, and Granny couldn't use that. Ordinary people have all the mess of life twirling around their brain, emotions and opinions and lust clouding their minds so that if one little thing, like the wish to get Granny a sandwich and to make it snappy, was inserted into their minds they wouldn't notice. Dwarfs though, who have so little space in their minds for anything to be put in, were a lot more difficult to manipulate*.

As she strode towards the mines in Copperhead, about five miles in the distance, they became outlined with the setting sun, turning the rocks to gold.

'Drama,' she spat.

* * *

*Apart from one, and she had Gytha to…_manipulate_ him.

* * *

There wasn't much in the dwarfish language that Granny Weatherwax could understand, but from the translator she had learned this much:

The dwarfs hadn't caused the landslide. Nothing could have caused the landslide apart from, ooh, let's say the _weather_? Lots of rain and lots of snow and not enough sunshine to evaporate it all so it all ran down the very steep mountain right towards _her_ village. Which didn't seem like a passable explanation to her.

She stalked out of the mountain and into the night air in an even worse mood than before.

The translator absentmindedly patted the king, who was sitting with his head in his hands, on the back. 'It could have been worse, sir.'

The king let out a torrent of guttural dwarfish, most of which would have been represented by little asterisks. The translator kept his waxen grin steady.

'Yes, sir, but-'

The king turned to face him. 'That bloody _K'ez'rek d'b'duz_*! Next she'll be accusing us of sabotage! In my own mine!'

* * *

*Lit: Go Around The Other Side Of The Mountain.

* * *

As Granny Weatherwax left a thought pushed its way into her brain.

Sabotage?

* * *

Nanny Ogg finally caught up with Granny Weatherwax after having run after her for over a mile over brambles and bracken and potholes, so she was not in a good mood.

'Esme!' she yelled.

Granny kept walking as Nanny jogged up to her side and fell on the floor, wiping her brow with the brim of her hat.

'You been up to see the dwarfs?' she asked conversationally, picking herself up off the floor.

'Maybe,' she replied haughtily, striding ahead.

'Why?

'Because it was them little buggers what did it.'

Nanny Ogg paused before thinking of an appropriate answer just to curse Esme Weatherwax's single mindedness, then finally said something. 'What if it wasn't them?'

'Then who else was it. That king of theirs was lyin' to me.' She sniffed. 'I could sense it. Accident, my-'

'No, Esme,' Nanny interrupted, 'what if it wasn't anyone?'

Granny Weatherwax turned to face her, eyebrows raised. 'You mean that tons of rock just accidentally fell down a hill an' crushed the village?'

'Well, it is more of a mountain.'

'It's not an accident, Gytha!'

'Yes, but…' Nanny Ogg floundered, pinned by Granny's sapphire stare. 'What if it was just the weather, like that dwarf fella said? I mean, it didn't have to be caused by someone. Could've just been the environment.'

'But it was wrong, Gytha, and wrong things cause wrong things to happen.'

_Oh gods_, Nanny Ogg thought. _Now we've gotten onto philosophy._

'What if it was just a landslide? I mean, they happen all the time over where them monks live.'

Granny wrinkled her nose. 'Them monks could be doin' anythin'.'

'Look, Esme, you've always said that there's no point worryin' why things happen, you've just gotta get on with them. What happened to that?'

'Because then someone wasn't possibly involved!'

Nanny Ogg considered the logic of that. 'Weeel, someone could have been involved every time. Why does this make any difference?'

'Because those times weren't aimed at everyone. An' I can feel it's wrong, Gytha, I can feel that there's someone behind all this. Don't ask me what, but there's something there which is controllin' it all, an' I don't like them.'

* * *

The gods stared down at the Discworld, specifically Lancre, in amazement.

'What happened to chance?' one of them asked miserably.

'Well, it follows all the patterns. No one was killed, and people should have been killed. No one was even injured, which I think is just poor play on someone's part.' The god glared around the amassed deities. 'Someone isn't becoming…_benevolent_?'

A couple of the younger gods flushed angrily at the suggestion.

Om turned back to the Discworld. 'Well, maybe something good'll come of it. And I distinctly remember saying that we should have set off the landslide on the other side of the mountain because we were aiming for the _monks_, remember that? Monks, not witches, even if both of them are problematic. The monks are too…close. We can't be having that.'

The gods sighed, cursing their bloody memories. You had a lot on your plate when you were a god.

* * *

So, all in all, Granny Weatherwax had to admit that the landslide might have been a good thing when the mysterious fire blazed through the village, which she managed to track down to Ellie Carter knocking over the oil lamp in her father's bakery. The new houses did stand up to the fire much better than the old ones would have.

She still didn't trust the dwarfs, though.


	56. The Beginning Is The End Is The Beginnin

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**Anyway, thank you thank you thank you wonderful people. Now all you've got to do is to keep reviewing, so that I'll love you forever and write more stuff.**

**This one's about Death who, let's be honest, is just epic. **

**Enjoy :)**

**PS: The name for this chapter is The Beginning Is The End Is The Beginning, but it doesn't fit in the chapter title box, so mourn the loss of a g.**

* * *

Susan, with the help of Lobsang and the Death of Rats who had tagged along anyway, was travelling along the rows of books in her grandfather's library, listening to invisible pens scratch away at papyrus and that cheap paper which is constantly covered in grease marks and thick, bright white paper for those whose status befitted that in Death's library. Death didn't like classes as a whole, but at least he could now read the books with his fingertips if needed.

'Hogfather,' she muttered as Lobsang wheeled the ladder from far below her, wincing as she remembered a rush of icy snow which stung her eyes and the faint sound of running footsteps.

'The Sandman…the tooth fairy…the Soul Cake Duck…'

'Aren't they alphabetical?' Lobsang called up.

'No. These ones are arranged by time.'

'What, time since they've been believed? Then shouldn't your grandfather be at the beginning?'

'Or at the end,' she said grimly, clinging onto the ladder. Lobsang sighed and carried on walking.

'Famine,' she muttered under her breath. 'We're getting close,' she called down to Lobsang.

'Good!'

She smiled slightly and kept her eyes focused on the books. She had come here to do a job and she wasn't going to let anyone, be he the incarnation of time or not, distract her.

'Gotcha!' she shouted, grabbing onto one of the shelves to stop the ladder moving. It creaked under her hand, Death being of the belief that if a library didn't creak in the wind and make ominous noises befitting to a place which could modify space and time then it really didn't deserve to be called a library.

'Thank gods,' Lobsang muttered, climbing up to meet her. He perched on a rung about half way down and looked up. 'Are you coming down?'

'Give me a minute,' she grunted, trying to pull the tome out. It had obviously never been looked at before, not even by the ever nosy Albert. She blew dust off the cover and ran her fingers over the embossed name which was so familiar to her; she wouldn't say she _liked_ it as such, but being known as Susan Death had its perks.

Carrying it under one arm, she made her way down the ladder and breathed out again once she felt the ground's reassuring firmness under her feet.

'Okay?' Lobsang asked, looking worried.

She nodded, and made her way into Death's study. She knew he wouldn't be back for a while, being preoccupied with a plague in northern Howondaland and a serial killer in Pseudopolis, which although she was sure were dreadful for the people involved in it had really helped her. Susan, as a general rule, didn't do empathy.

'It's…less grand,' Lobsang said, examining the tired leather of the front cover.

'Less grand that you expected? Well, he's never been one for drama.'

'I just thought that the Final Certainty or the Grim Reaper or the Tax Master might have a more spectacular book than this. I mean, it could have just come from under the bed in someone's house.'

'Someone with a rather macabre sense of humour, it sounds like,' Susan replied, turning over the first page and trying to read the ancient runes carved into what seemed to be a very thin piece of stone.

'I could try,' Lobsang offered.

'No,' Susan said slowly. 'You don't need to.'

Images filled her mind.

**_Darkness. Darkness and fear overrode everything here, turning the simplest of rustling trees or drifting flakes of snow into a primeval beast stepping forward, catching its claws on the fallen snow or a scattered branch. Winds whistle, ravens squeak in the night. They seem to be saying…nevermore, was it? Just repeating it over and over again._**

**_Footsteps on muffled ground give rise to a fear of the unknown, a fear of death which manifests itself into some sort of wormhole in front of him, some sort of gap in the sky until whatever it was realised that this was no way to behave and, instead, turned its attentions to making something vaguely shape like. It attempted a few - a burning pyre of wood, a hissing snake until he realised that that shape was already taken - but finally settled on what looked like a burnt out skeleton. The fire had gone to leave behind a blackened figure which crumbled as it stepped forward but seemed to stay resolutely whole, as if it were defying the laws of the universe as a matter of principle._**

**_But of course this was how they would visualise death. In a community where they had quickly realised that it was fairly unhygienic to leave dead bodies lying around everywhere when there was perfectly good fire which some weedy, unhealthy looking figure had claimed that he had stolen, most people's image of the afterlife was a grave filled with charred bones to save space and disease. It was people's minds who conjured up Death, made him a figure with some sort of queer humanity about him, as if whoever was looking at humanity was seeing things through the bottom of a shot glass*._**

**_*Which would explain a lot._**

**_Fire, charcoal, bones. A breath of heat in the snow._**

Lobsang shook her shoulder and Susan blinked a couple of times before realising that she was no longer in an ancient forests where the furniture was made out of slabs of rock.

'Susan?'

'I'm okay,' she said, pushing him away gently. 'It was just a shock, that was all.'

He seemed unconvinced, but nodded. She turned the page.

**_And now, in the middle of monarchy, Death would have to wear a crown. It wasn't just a cheapy affair crudely put together by someone after the last king had run off with the crown jewels and a young scullery maid, it was ornate and brilliant and had deadly points on it. It was a crown that meant business, one that demonstrated quite clearly that everything else was below this…figure, even if only because he was over seven feet tall._**

**_There were still no robes, because clothes were mortal things. In a world where the rigid social hierarchy controlled every garment you wore someone who had the choice not to wear clothes would be a king because no one could stop him. No one would dare tell a skeleton what to do._**

**_Yet there were changes to the body. The bones glowed a pearly white as if lit by some ethereal spirit which, in a world where you could be hanged for blasphemy when all you did was say 'Gosh' after dropping a hammer on your foot, could be called religion. It was a wonder the skeleton didn't wear a cowl. Still, the bones were special, each one whole and perfect as if formed by a creator who wanted humans to have a good death in preparation for the judgement which awaited them. Let them have hope, the gods said, that gift which makes everyone's death better._**

**_Then let them suffer._**

**_It was a ruthless time and the people had seen enough blood. They wanted something pure, something whole, something different. And Death could certainly fulfil _****that****_._**

Somewhere else, a long time in the future, a page was turned with a sharp click.

**_Death had robes. He had a cowl and a sceptre and had kept the crown because now he was king. King of everything. People, now, because of the carnage and the wrath that was subjected upon them every day, subconsciously associated Death with kings and vice versa, because that was all they could remember. And this Death was ruthless, you could see it in the ice cold blue orbs and the tiny pinpricks of darkness which, if you looked for long enough, could swallow you whole._**

**_As he strode over the landscape it burned golden beneath his feet. His robes, decked out in purple and rich red, the colour of royalty because only they could get away with a uniform of red and indigo, fluttered heavily through the still, sultry air where people were too afraid to speak._**

**_And yet, there was something different. Something odd. A mere flicker, maybe, that only someone adept at telling emotions from a seven foot skeleton could detect, but it meant a world of difference. Deep down, through the glassy eyes and the arrogant stare, was a tiny piece of guilt. Or maybe it was an interest in the people that he had followed for millennia, seen them develop from cave dwelling, unsophisticated mammals to palace dwelling, unsophisticated mammals. The situation may have changed, but the people certainly hadn't._**

The paper had moved from gold edged and thick white to cheap, thin paper liberally coated with bloodstains and written in the scrawl of someone far too busy to bother about legibility.

**_This Death's bones were fragmented and pockmarked, scarred from battles beyond our dreams, battles that he had survived. Or that's what those, lying, bleeding on battlefields across the Disc wanted to believe: they wanted to think of Death as that old sergeant major who, whilst being a complete and utter bastard, taught them all they needed to know about surviving on the field of battle. And this, the journey across the dark desert, was their final battle._**

**_His robes were slashed and covered in blood, contrasting with the bright blue eye sockets which burned with some inner light. They had all seen that light before in the eyes of men who'd seen far too much far too young and didn't care what they were doing or who they would be hurting just so they could feel human again. They would drink until they fell over in the hope that they could see some sense in the chaos that surrounded them, they would rush into battle with their swords outstretched and what some would call a valiant gleam in their eyes, although really it was the wish to feel something again, even if it was the sharp gash of a sabre slicing through them._**

**_There was no crown. Crowns had led them all into this mess, it wasn't appropriate for anything vaguely resembling royalty to lead them out. The robes were still the same, though, still had the same religious undertones which just shows how people will cling to _****anything****_. We who are about to die will believe in anything._**

**_Still there was this feeling of restless energy in the figure, as if it wanted to change things. It was the spark of a revolutionary, someone who wanted to work on behalf of the people, presumably those who weren't slicing each other to bits, and wanted to help, which isn't the best thing in an anthropomorphic personification of death. It was making Them uneasy, like Death was developing…_**

**_…a personality._**

Lobsang reached out towards Susan again but she elbowed him angrily, visualising hooded grey figures in the corners of her mind with those expressionless blank faces that told her that she was just a mere speck in a world full of other mere specks who, if They wanted to, could be eradicated with the slight movement of a thumb.

**_And then Death opened his eyes, actually opened his eyes, because people wanted him to see. People wanted him to know their pain, because they didn't trust the gods to do it anymore, they wanted him to sympathise with them and _****help****_ them. That hurt him, their wish that he could automatically solve all the problems - all the deaths, he was supposed to revert them; all the bloodshed, he was expected to wipe it up and erase their memories._**

**_He couldn't do it._**

**_So Death became hardened. He developed sarcasm and cynicism because now he was thinking for himself, and that always presents problems. He had seen the world and couldn't do a damn thing about it…_**

**_Until he saw the child._**

'I'm warning you, Lobsang, if you poke me again I. Will. Hurt. You. Is that clear?'

Lobsang gulped and moved away.

**_It - no, she - was lying on the ground and staring up at the sky like she didn't quite know what was going on her. Beside her lay the corpses of two people, one male, one female, presumably her parents and presumably not killed by her; there was a remarkable lack of blood on her clothes for the volume which had soaked into the sand beside the two bodies._**

**_Death, initially, wasn't sure if she was dead and the lifetimers had got it wrong, she was lying so still on the sand dunes, but she sat bolt upright and glared at him._**

**_'Who're you?' she said, eyes narrowing._**

**_I AM…A FRIEND._**

**_'Yeah, right,' she replied, with all the precociousness of an eight year old. 'You're Death. I seen you before.'_**

**_WHY IS YOUR GRAMMAR WRONG, SMALL CHILD?_**

**_'Mother said that it was to get attention and that I should stop lisping as well.' The girl frowned. 'I done the last, but the first can be quite useful.'_**

**_Death glared at her. He didn't like people who treated grammar like it was a game of Pin The Tail On The Donkey. YOUR PARENTS ARE DEAD,' he said coldly._**

**_'I know.' The girl's voice was hollow._**

**_HOW DID THEY DIE?_**

**_'Aren't you supposed to know that?'_**

**_Death shrugged. SOMETIMES MISTAKES ARE MADE._**

**_'What's going to happen to me, then?'_**

WHICH PART HAVE YOU GOT TO, THEN? Death asked from behind them.

Susan span round, a poker magically in her hand. Sometimes belief could cause problems, especially for those with slightly superhuman powers which they really wished they didn't have.

'When did you get back?' she demanded, putting the poker back into her skirt reluctantly.

TECHNICALLY, I'M STILL AWAY, IF YOU BELIEVE WHAT THOSE WIZARDS ARE SAYING, Death said coolly, leaning over her shoulder and reading the page. AH, THE BIT WHERE I MEET YOUR MOTHER.

'Yes,' Susan said abruptly, closing the book. 'But why are you back?'

YOU KNOW, I SPENT A BRIEF TIME AS A WOMAN, Death reminisced. BUT THEN I COMPLAINED AND THEY CHANGED SOME THINGS. IT'S NOT GOOD, BEING AN ANTHROPOMORPHIC PERSONIFICATION WITH HORMONES. BUT IT DID MAKE ME FEEL SOME SYMPATHY.

'Why do _you_, of all things, have a book?'

Death snapped back into focus. WHY SHOULDN'T I? EVERYTHING ELSE DOES.

'It's just odd, that's all. You can see it, for one thing.'

BUT I CHOOSE NOT TO.

'Surely you could look into the future and see what happens to you? What you'll wear next, whether you'll still be vaguely human shape, all of that?'

HAVE YOU? YOU, HYPOTHETICALLY, WOULD BE ABLE TO TAKE DOWN YOUR BOOK, LOOK IN IT AND DISCOVER WHAT MIGHT HAPPEN, BECAUSE YOU CAN COME IN HERE. BUT THE BOOKS CANNOT TELL ME WHAT WILL HAPPEN, ONLY WHAT _MIGHT_.

'But I don't want to see what might happen to me. I don't even want to see what will!'

WHY?

'Because then I'd have no control over it.'

Death looked pleased. EXACTLY, he said, and disappeared off into his office. They waited until the click of bones on marble floor tiles was silenced until moving again.

Lobsang looked confused as Susan stood up wearily and moved back over to the shelves. 'Don't you want to read it?'

'That's his way of telling me not to do something,' she replied, sighing. 'He just uses a load of ambiguity and makes some profound statement about humanity, whilst other grandparents might shout or write a nasty letter. It's confusing, sometimes I wish he didn't do it, but at least I _know_ now.'

As she started to climb up the ladder the book, which she could have sworn was slippier than when she picked it up, fell from her fingers.

'Hey!'

It had landed heavily, open on the last page. Images swam up.

**_Everpresent fear, a voice in the darkness of a desolate world telling you that you were nothing, that you never meant a thing. All the pain was for nothing._**

**_Bone chilling terror stretched out before them like tendrils of a poisonous fear, taking them with it. That was where religions were made, when people looked into the future and only saw fear and they needed something, they didn't care what, to make it more believable. It's a lot easier to believe that something's got a hold on the future._**

**_Death moved forward. He was a skeleton, burnt to a cinder and glowing slightly as he walked, powered by the fire which glowed throughout the world. Everything red, everything burnt beyond recognition._**

**_The fear was still there. There were no survivors, at least no _****human****_ survivors, but from the cockroaches and bacteria and sizzling plants which glowed fluorescent green, adapted to a radioactive world, there was still that terror of the unknown._**

**_In a world of red and gold, Death opened his eyes and stared…_**

**_A flash of blue._**

Lobsang and Susan stared down at the book as the rest of the pages flipped over, releasing memories into the air which floated away as smoothly as silk.

'It's probably a good idea he doesn't find out,' Lobsang said awkwardly.


	57. Door - Rosie Palm

It was a plain wooden door on a street full of plain wooden doors set into plain, if grubby, walls which normally housed plain people going about their menial lives knowing, but never questioning.

This door was different, though.

People could give you all sorts of information about this door, but never from eyewitnesses. They could say that a friend of a friend had heard the screams and the gruesome thumps, the mechanical hum of something beyond their imaginations; maybe their cousin had once seen the hurry up wagon go in carrying three people but only one left, and from the state of him he had come close enough to not leaving that the image would forever be imprinted on his eyelids, haunting him if he ever slept again; but they were very careful to say that it wasn't _them_ who had seen it. You never knew who was watching.

Rumours spread of their own accord when people are bunched together and windows are blacked out. But this time they had a right to be suspicious.

* * *

It was Rosie Palm's first time on the hurry up wagon. She knew that the Agony Aunts would be behind her, lurking in shadows, ready to pounce or at least saunter and stab at the smallest violence to one of the Seamstresses, but she couldn't help the sudden flutter of fear.

She had heard the rumours. Everyone knew the rumours - ranging from a trip on the hurry up wagon meant a fine as large as that in your purse which, since it hadn't been a good night for business, wasn't that large, or it meant never coming out the back of the offices on Cable Street. The latter frightened her not for what she did know, which was that screams could often be heard and the rubbish which was put out every night for the honey wagons was more organic than the usual, but for what she didn't know.

Oh, there were conspirators. There were always people plotting behind the Patrician's back, where there was so much room, but they didn't mean any harm. The people she knew didn't have the funds or even the intelligence to overthrow the city's leader, it was up to the bigwigs with fancy hair and dresses which weren't made of the cheap velvet you got at the shonky shop, nearly worn through but they still managed to charge ridiculous prices for it. Only people with influence could make a difference; without influence, you weren't a person at all.

'All right, everyone off,' the watchman at the front shouted whilst another opened the door. Rosie gave him a haughty look as she stepped off the coach and onto the cobbles, wincing slightly as her heel got caught in a gap.

'How many?' came a voice from the shadows.

'Six, sir,' the watchman replied promptly, ducking back into the coach.

'Well done,' the voice said patronisingly, as if congratulating a small sticky child on the discovery of a worm. It was basically how the voice saw the people in the hurry up wagon.

The figure stepped forward, a ratty little man with lank, greasy hair and an oversized head wearing a leather apron with a surprising lack of bloodstains. He surveyed them as the wagon drove off, rattling until it turned a corner and vanished from sight.

'How much you got on ya?' he drawled to Rosie, holding out his hand.

She tipped out her purse and a lousy tuppence fell out into his grimy palm. Why people paid for her to do things they could do themselves she would never know, but she wasn't complaining, as such.

'Bad business, eh?' he said, leering. She stayed staring resolutely ahead, trying not to notice the gleam of lust in his eyes. She recognised him as someone who, after they'd finish work, would prowl the street looking for a seamstress who needed a bit more money so would operate during the hours of daylight, and then, when he had picked one up, tried to persuade them that he was a good guy who just wanted to do good by them and give them a little money in return for whatever favours they could grant him. The sort of man who made her sick, really; someone who would take advantage of someone's desperation, and she knew what it was like to be desperate, in order to get a cheap shag.

She vaguely recognised the other people who had been in the hurry up wagon with her - not by names, but by stereotypes, though she tried to steer away from them. A couple looked like the typical Ankh-Morpork criminal - big, red faced and with a reputation for honesty needed to commit the biggest crimes - one looked like a young seamstress of the sort who'd joined because she needed to put food on the table, a bit like Rosie herself, but then another looked a bit too sharp, a bit too clean to be one of the city's men. He was upper class, that was for sure, about seventeen but he looked older, and probably an Assassin even if he did wear loose fitting grey clothes that made him blur into the background. Someone in the Watch must have had really keen eyes to spot him.

Suddenly, the man in grey moved so that he was standing behind the guard who was viciously interrogating the younger seamstress. Rosie saw a flash of brass, helpfully concealed beneath a layer of tarnish unusual for an Assassin. They tended to be more secretive.

Then the guard keeled over silently and the man winked at Rosie, an odd expression on his otherwise steady face. The rest of the people stood around silently, staring at the fallen man.

'Come on,' the man hissed, and they turned to stare at him. 'They'll be coming any minute, do you really want them to suspect you?'

One by one, as people practiced in the art of melting into the background, they all disappeared, probably to return home and elaborate the story, adding in a few more tales of bloodshed and horrific torture instruments.

Rosie Palm, however, walked straight over to the hooded man who had nearly vanished into the gloom of the narrow streets and grabbed his arm.

'Yes?' he enquired, eyebrows raised.

She glared at him, unperturbed by his haughty expression. 'You knocked him out!'

The boy, she could call him that now even though he was over six foot, looked at her blankly. 'And? What would you have done?'

Well, now she came to think of it, probably applied a sharp stiletto to the literal unmentionables. But that didn't help.

The boy was watching her critically. 'I think there's someone that you'd like to meet.'

'I'm not taking any more clients tonight,' she said wearily.

'I didn't mean that. It's a woman.'

'There are other people for that.'

'An influential woman. Someone who might be able to…change things.'

No one could have missed the faint spark in Rosie Palm's eyes, even if she tried to hide it. 'What sort of things?' she asked coldly.

He was already striding away. 'Are you coming or not?'

* * *

The house, surprisingly, was on Easy Street, right next to the Shades. Rosie had a faint feeling that she knew why this woman with influence, whoever she was, had a house right next to the most volatile part of the city.

Still, every place in the city was at boiling point at the moment. Dolly Sisters - you couldn't move for secretive huddles, which wasn't doing anything for business; Treacle Mine Road was a haven for people trying to keep out of the shadows; riots every night in the Shades. She knew some revolutionaries, she knew some of them very well indeed, and most of them were just kids who didn't think that life was fair anymore. Oh yes, you had some devotees who believed that they could change the world, but most people were just fed up.

The door swung open and Rosie could smell the faint odour of alcohol, silk and stale sweat which showed that there was a room with a fair number of nobs in it. Sometimes people that rich just didn't care what their appearance was like.

A woman stood there, looking her up and down, eying the cheap dress and the excessive make up and the high heels, so impractical for walking around the city. 'Well, Havelock,' she said in a voice with a slight Genuan tinge to it, 'I respect your likings, but this is not a house of ill repute.'

The boy, Havelock, sighed. 'I'm not planning that, Madam, but I thought she could be…useful.'

An indecipherable glance passed between Havelock and the woman, who nodded. 'Come in, please.'

As she stepped through the door the noise was amplified and Rosie could pick out aristocratic voices among the crowd, along with a couple of thick Morporkian accents which sounded somewhat out of place.

'I like to have a variety of guests,' Madam said, stalking ahead.

Rosie widely didn't comment, only followed the woman, who was decked out in acres of lilac silk, through a few corridors until they reached a secluded room. After ushering her in and kicking Havelock out with subtle force, as only a relative can do, she turned to face her.

'So,' she asked, not unkindly, 'who are you?'

'Rosemary Palm.'

The woman raised her eyebrows, but didn't comment. 'And you're a seamstress, yes?'

'For three years.'

'So you would have been what, fourteen?' Rosie didn't reply and the woman sighed. 'Still, it's a woman's work. And you look bright, so I expect you're wondering what's going on.'

'I'd like to know why I'm here.'

The woman in lilac regarded her, taking in the strong, no nonsence jaw, the slight gleam in her eyes, the intelligence in her expression. Under the bright light she could see that red shoe polish had been rubbed into the dress's thin fabric to make it seem more expensive under dim street lights or cheap candles in most of the houses of ill-repute.

'I don't know, but Havelock's got a good eye and I've always trusted him in the past.' Madam, unfortunately, looked like this would be the case no longer. 'So, I'm going to come out and ask you directly…Rosemary. Do you have any rebel sympathies?'

'If they can pay enough,' Rosie said immediately, and to her surprise Madam grinned.

'Ah, a true seamstress's response.'

'How would you know?'

'And not afraid to speak your mind, I see,' Madam said, sipping champagne daintily from a blue teddy bear mug. 'You know, you could be useful. Knowing most of the people on the streets, being in a profession where you're expected to be on the streets after dark, we could use you.'

'Who's we?'

'Well, the rebels, of course. There are people in this town who believe that Lord Winder's up to no good-'

'I _know_ Winder's up to no good.'

'Then you'll fit right in. Now tell me, Rosemary, how good are you at persuasion?'

* * *

Rosemary Palm swept through the party, a new red velvet dress clinging to her hips and billowing out around her legs, hair huge with the addition of a cleverly disguised wig and bangles up to her elbows. The shabby make up had gone to be replaced with stylish eyeliner and startlingly red lipstick of the sort Madam said was a key factor in persuading older men with lots of money. Rosie, who had spent most of her teenage life persuading men, at least, with money, was finding the job easy.

Plus, they were willing to spend a little more.

She had been to a few of these parties, as Madam had euphemistically called them; in reality they were a way of keeping track of Ankhian society, the bits that had floated to the top, at least, and those within it who might have rebel sympathies which, because even the upper class have some means of detecting the mood of the city, was the majority of them. Lord Winder, who had also been invited and was staring at Rosie suspiciously from piggy eyes, didn't have many people surrounding him.

She was surprised to find that she was actually enjoying herself.

Oh, she had no influence yet, she was just one of the more highbrow seamstresses scattered here and there, but it was a damn sight better than walking the streets every night. But she could pretend that someday she would be able to make a difference.

After the party had finished and Madam had supplied her with her usual basket full of armed goods, most of which Rosie wouldn't have a clue how to use but could definitely knock someone out with a chair leg, she found the man lying in an alleyway.

Men lying in alleyways stripped to their unmentionables weren't that much of an uncommon site in the Shades, especially since Dotsie and Sadie had been recruited into the ragtag bunch of seamstresses which, at the moment, constituted a guild, but Rosie had seen some thieves running off with what looked like some very expensive armour and could put two and two together.

The man was sound to the world with blood seeping from a gash to his head and just underneath his eye, missing the eyeball by half an inch. His legs were tanned from the knees downwards, something that spelt watchman in Rosie's experienced eyes, and one of his fingers had a faint red ring mark on it, someone who didn't wear a ring all that often but was still married. He wasn't ever so muscular, but looked as if he could put up a decent fight.

Rosie sighed and walked round to the next street, knocking on Dr Lawn's door and stepping back lest he be using some sort of intricate paddling device like the one she had seen last week. He opened it, his hands empty, and glared at her.

'Rosie Palm, yes?'

She nodded.

'Well, what can I be doing for you?' he asked brightly, as if he had been commanded to be nice and a people person after a long day at the office. 'Or who can I remove a stiletto heel from this week?'

Rosie decided to ignore that last comment. 'There's a man lying down an alleyway bleeding.'

'Then leave him to it,' Lawn said harshly. His tone softened as he rubbed his eyes. 'Sorry, only it's been a long day. Where's he bleeding from? And do you know him?'

'Never seen him before in my life, though he might be a nob. Saw some thieves nicking some good armour from him when I walked past. And he's bleeding from the eye and head, it looks like, though there's a fair amount of blood.'

Lawn frowned; seamstresses usually knew everyone. It made them useful in the eyes of people like Madam. 'Mugging?'

'Might be.'

'I don't know why I own a bed,' Lawn muttered grimly, a sentiment that she had heard him say many times before. Whilst smart enough to have never required some of his services, it paid to know a decent doctor, especially when she had to teach some of the younger girls how to use a thimble, for want of a better description.

'Can you help me carry him?'

They slowly managed to carry the man from the alleyway up to Twinkle Street and dump him on Lawn's operating table, where Lawn washed the eye and applied an eyepatch, bandaging up his head quickly. The man started to snore loudly.

'I could wake him up,' Lawn offered, holding a hammer nonchalantly.

'No, leave him. He looks like he could do with the rest.'

As soon as she had said the man stirred slightly and she sensed the faint flow of brainwaves which occurred when someone woke up, usually in her bed, and felt it better not to see the world.

'He's awake,' she said.

'Are you sure?' asked Lawn, bending down and looking at him critically. 'How can you tell?'

_Years of practice_, Rosie was tempted to say. 'Because I'm good at telling if a man is asleep.'

As soon as she had said it the man's eye opened and, with remarkable speed, turned to Rosie. She could sense him appraising her. After his head turned and he caught sight of Lawn, holding what she prayed was a turkey baster made of metal and not one of the things her imagination was conjuring up, he sat bolt upright.

'You lay one hand on me and I'll thump you!' he screamed, trying to roll off the table and failing miserably. Lawn rolled his eyes, as experienced as she was in men waking up in unfamiliar places.

'I should take it easy, if I was you,' he said, pushing him back onto the table. He was already scanning the room, looking for a way out.

And something went click in Rosie's mind.

* * *

An hour later, after having ferried the man back and forth to the Isle of Gods and the area around Treacle Mine Road, Rosie knocked on Madam's door, wondering if she ever stopped hosting parties. The Agony Aunts were almost certainly behind her, but they were in on the revolutionary thing.

The woman opened it, frowning when she saw Rosie's flushed cheeks.

'I've found you someone useful,' she said.


	58. Enemy Gate - Teatime

**This was originally intended to be Jonathan Teatime's journey through the Nine Circles of Hell, though as far as I can remember Dante's version was a little longer than 2950 words. Anyway, he gets to one circle, at least.**

**So, enjoy my version of Dante's Inferno through the brilliant, fractured mirror mind of Teatime :)**

* * *

Jonathan Teatime, more accurately pronounced Te-ah-tim-eh, walked across the dark desert. Black sand fountained up underneath his boots into the brilliantly lit stormy sky. There were no stars, maybe it was the rugged mountains in the distance which were emitting the light.

He was in hell, he supposed, or nearly there. People had always told him that he was going to hell, generally right before he killed them, their children and the family dog because it was untidy to leave loose ends flapping, and who knew what dogs could get up to. There may be talking dogs, he reasoned in his childish mind, they just didn't talk when he was around, and he didn't blame them. It was easy to get detected when you talked.

Teatime didn't talk a great deal, instead preferring to watch the world go by and formulate little intricate plans for disposing of Death or the Sand Man, then he would look at the brief that the Assassins' Guild had given him and plan entrance and exit and murder method, each one different and specific to the case, usually to add irony. Teatime was a great fan of irony, but was annoyed that he was killed, almost literally, by it.

In hindsight, calling the children 'curly haired tots' was probably a bad idea. He would have murdered anyone who called him that, even at the age of eight. In a haze of nostalgia, which Teatime rarely encountered, he remembered that he had.

Teatime didn't care, though. He was too busy looking at the three shapes that had appeared in the distance.

His hand went to his belt where, he was relieved to feel the handle of a knife. Several knives, in fact. Death had been kind to him, or perhaps in Teatime's mind there were always knives close to hand. If there wasn't a knife there was almost certainly a dagger and, failing that, his wrist knives which he was pleased to see were still, as it were, close to hand.

The creatures moved closer, and the light was good enough for even his one good eye, which still saw the world as a fractured mirror with odd shapes caterwauling in the distance, for him to make out a lion, a leopard and a wolf. Teatime, as a scholarship boy, hadn't ever been taken to zoos or on expensive safaris, preferring instead to spend his free time conjuring up plans to dispose of Death on the backs of newspapers, but he recognised the animals from portraits which hung on the dark mahogany walls of the Guild.

They were big, he realised. Bigger than in the portraits. But as he moved they seemed to blur out of focus until only the pure essence of the creatures remained, silvery lines mapping out the idea of a lion rather than an actual one.

Made out of fear, he guessed, even though he wasn't remotely terrified. Well, he could deal with that.

He slipped the knives out of his pockets and approached them slowly, looking them dead in the eyes whilst the figures blurred the air around them, winding reality up with the idea of fur and the idea of teeth and claws outstretched as they leapt.

Teatime brought his arm, holding the very pointy daggers, around in an arc and laughed gleefully as the lion's head was flung off, leaving a quivering mass of silvered ideas and dissolving fur in its place. The wolverine pounced and was flung back as Teatime's fist, so helpfully enclosed in the brass knuckledusters useful in such an emergency, connected with her throat.

The leopard paused. The spirit of the leopard wanted the chase, was baying for blood and the crunch of bones on teeth, but whatever physical, and ultimately more sensible part of the leopard which could feel pain was holding it back.

Teatime, though, wasn't one to leave loose ends. The knife flew through the air and buried itself up to the hilt in the leopard's chest. It keeled over, blood instantly sucked up by the black sand.

He became aware of a dull clapping to his left and turned around.

'Oh yes, very nice,' the man, who seemed to be wearing a toga, said dully. 'There are some men who just automatically have knives after they die, so we have to give 'em a bit of a challenge. Y'know, see if they're worthy of eternal damnation.'

Teatime stepped forward, taking in the man's appearance. He seemed to be wearing a garland of leaves around his head.

'I'm sorry, who are you?'

'Oh, didn't I say? Sorry.' The man held out a hand. 'I'm Virgil, famous Latatian poet, you know?' He sighed as Teatime's face remained blank. 'Author of the Aeniead and The Wizard's Staff Has A Knob On The End?'

'You wrote that?'

'What, I'm not allowed to have a hobby? And you're Mr Teatime, I presume.'

Teatime's eye twitched slightly, but he gave the man a bright smile. 'Te-ah-tim-eh.'

'What's the difference?'

'Oh, there's a difference.' Then Teatime's childish face softened and looked more confused. 'So, why are you here?'

'I'm supposed to give you a Walking Tour of Hell.'

'I heard somewhere that Hell is what you think it'll be in your head.'

'Who told you that? I shouldn't think many people come back.'

'A zombie.' Mr Slant had given him some very useful advice regarding what is legal in the Assassins' Guild and what he wouldn't be able to defend Teatime against. He had ignored it all; his faint smile meant that people were rapidly deterred from challenging him at anything.

'Ah. Well, they've got it half right. It's whatever your subconscious thinks you deserve, so I get a lot of interesting tours around here. I mean, the standard Health and Safety sorting gets a little dull after a while.'

Teatime followed Virgil through a low wooden door marked 'You don't have to be damned to work here, but it helps!' with what he thought was an unhealthy number of exclamation marks. Teatime, although in touch with his inner child who was laughing at the poor joke, was nevertheless getting a little worried. For one thing, there were a lot of people being chased by bees and wasps.

Underneath the overly cheerful sign was a scribbled out message bearing the words 'Abandon all hope ye who enter here', which he felt befitted the situation a little better. This was Hell, after all.

'So, why me?' he asked, hurrying to keep up with Virgil.

'Who knows?' Virgil shrugged. 'Last guy we got through here was a fella named Dante. Very poetic, wrote everything down in a little book like he was going to write a book or something. I helped him out, though, 'cos it wasn't his time.'

'And is it my time?'

'Oh, yes. The gods stopped messing me about after that.'

Teatime stepped closer. 'You see, Mister Virgil, I don't have many enemies. I trust I don't need to explain why, but I'm fairly sure you don't want to come to the same ... end ... as them.'

Virgil simply raised one eyebrow and laughed slightly, then led him on through the maze of corridors. Teatime skipped along them, staring up at the stonework and wondering how he could use it as a weapon.

Virgil opened another door and led him into a wide green field, stretching as far as the eye could see, with aimless ghosts wandering around. If Teatime looked closely he could just detect that their feet weren't actually touching the floor, as if either the ground wasn't real or they weren't real.

'Welcome to Limbo. Unbaptised and pagans,' Virgil said, waving his hands about. 'Now, up there in the castle, you can see it if you squint, there's supposed to be a load of poets and mythical gods and the like, but they've all gone on a field trip today, so it's all a bit quiet. We weren't quite expecting you, you see.'

Teatime wasn't listening, though, instead making a mental inventory of what he had on him in the way of weapons and how he could defeat something which wasn't real. If they weren't acting real then they weren't real, he was real, he was sure of that, but they weren't. They were figments of his imagination, that was all.

'Don't even try it, sonny jim,' Virgil said, noticing how his hand slipped into his pocket. 'This is Hell, remember. No one can die.'

Teatime looked innocent, a cherubim hiding away a shattered mind, all glittering diamonds which reflected the world in queer ways. 'Who, me? Oh, I wouldn't do anything to hurt you.'

'This the man who just told me he had no enemies?' Virgil asked. Teatime remained silent.

'And here's the castle,' Virgil said, pointing up at a magnificent Gothic structure out of place in the rolling green fields. 'We've given it a luck of paint recently, the outside was just disgusting to look at. And in here is where you'll be judged.'

'Judged for what?'

'Your sins, of course. I'm not a mind reader, but I presume that any man whose ghost form carried two daggers and a knuckleduster must have nicked a bob or two of murdered a couple of people.'

'And why are you here?'

'Me? I'm not an Omnian.' He sighed. 'You know, they're up there with their one god and their scrolls and no one believes them and down here, well, they'll die to regret that.'

They walked up the stone stairs into the desolate castle and nodded to a few blank faced figures who floated along, their feet leaving no sound on the stone floor.

'So, everyone who isn't an Omnian is put in here?'

'No, not really. Everyone who isn't an Omnian and hasn't done anything bad.'

Teatime could count the number of Omnians he knew on one hand. Limbo was going to get really crowded soon.

'You said that hell depends on what you think you deserve.'

The poet looked at him keenly. 'So what does this tell me about you? That you would just love there to be some prejudice that you can protest against, make yourself look like a victim?' He sighed. 'But everyone who's sinned and believes that they deserve to go to Hell ends up in one of the other eight circles. Can't quite remember the names now, and they change depending on the fashion anyway, but then there's this snake-'

_Snake_, Teatime thought in his fractured mind. _Snakes are mortal. I have a knife. I could kill the snake with one swipe…_

'Well, he's really a serpentine, but he's got a sharp tongue on him. Judgemental, too, but he's supposed to, part of the job, really.'

'And he'll judge me?'

'Yep.'

_I could bribe him_, Teatime thought_, I could threaten him and force him to send me to Heaven at knife point…_

They walked through the winding corridors, with more ghost like figures, until they reached a huge room with a…thing…in the middle of it.

It was sort of like a man with a tentacles instead of legs, though a lot more sinister. In Teatime's shattered mind he glowed red, as if he had some sort of power over him.

Which he didn't, of course. The snake was just a bit odd.

Teatime liked to think that he was the definition of creepy. The eye helped, of course, it had its own light which shone into people's souls, or so they liked to think. In reality it just distorted things, made them two dimensional, made everything just a thing.

Maybe that was his sin. That he thought of people as things.

_Then_ he realised that he was contemplating what sins he had committed.

Teatime had never felt guilty before, and he didn't like it. He went through life with the assurance that hurting people didn't mean anything; they would die anyway, all he was doing was hastening it and giving them a slightly quicker death. He was a good Assassin, and good assassins, after a while, learned to think of people as the prices on their heads rather than the worth of the person.

He went one step further. He didn't even bother with the _price_.

The serpentine was moving closer now, and was looking Teatime up and down critically. And all of a sudden, Teatime felt exactly like what his victims did. He was a thing, he was a nothing, he was a speck upon the ground which could be destroyed by a brief blow of air or a footstep in the wrong place.

'And who isss thisss?' the serpentine asked.

'Mister Te-ah-tim-eh,' Virgil answered, stepping back. Teatime could sense, although he had never had reason to before, the panic pouring off the man. 'Te-ah-tim-eh, meet Minos.'

The serpentine looked at him through small, grey eyes set into a broad slimy forehead. 'Teatime?' he asked, arranging the syllables.

'Te-ah-tim-_eh_,' Teatime repeated, his hand on his knife. If he could just get rid of Virgil…

'And what are your sssinsss?' the serpentine asked, sounding bored.

'I wasn't aware that I had any.'

'Oh, yessss, because I haven't heard that one before. Really original.'

'Aren't you supposed to tell me?' Teatime asked, pulling his dagger out slightly. Virgil took a step backwards, but Minos didn't seem to notice, instead staring into the distance with an expression of apathy.

'Normally they're paranoid,' he said slowly. 'Normally you tell them anything and they'll confessssss to it right away, even if you've plucked it out of thin air. They'll be ssso terrified that they'll admit to having killed their bessst friend or their firssst born ssson, they'll tell you every sssingle thing that they've done wrong in the hope that you'll forgive them for being honessst.' Hisss gaze sssnapped up to meet Teatime'sss. 'I don't like honesssty, asss a whole. I think that if people exissst by believing the little liesss they ssshould carry them on. You're the sssame, I sssee, but you've built up a ssshield of liesss. You haven't done a thing, but in your heart you're racked by guilt every sssingle day.'

Teatime frowned. His heart had never been racked by anything, least of all guilt. It wasn't that he built up a web of lies around himself, he was the lie, that innocent face which could plot murder without a flicker of emotion, that blank eye which made the world so complicated.

The serpent was looking him up and down. 'No. You don't even have that, do you? You wouldn't care if I accusssed you of sssomething, becaussse you've probably done it and you'd be _proud_.'

'Um, Minos?'

Minos ignored Virgil, who was frantically waving around. 'You dessserve sssomething I can't even give you. Oh, the eight circlesss are all well and good, but you've never committed a crime asss menial asss lussst or gluttony or anything like that. Your crime isss thinking of people asss thingsss. It'sss an unusssual thing, I grant you.'

Teatime lashed out, the knife in his hand, but a tentacle snatched it out of his grasp and flung the dagger into the wall. 'Nice try,' it sneered. 'You think no one'sss ever tried to attack me before?'

'So, you've got nowhere to put me,' Teatime said, making sure that he didn't break eye connection. 'Where do I go?'

'Oh, that's for whoever'sss up there to decide. I sssimply judge you, they're allowed to protessst.'

'Hell's whatever I want it to be, isn't it?'

'No. Hell isss whatever your sssubconsssciousss thinks you dessserve, but you don't even have a sssubconsssciousss, do you? Ssso you're a bit of a conundrum.'

'I try to be.'

'Ssso, what will I do with you.' The serpent thought about it, his chin on a tentacle. 'Well, I would sssay that you and I have one thing in common. We're both bassstardsss. Ssso I will do for you what I would do for me.' He nodded at Virgil, who was still flapping his hands. 'Oh, what do you want?'

'I was supposed to give him a tour,' Virgil said miserably. 'I've got all day.'

Minos looked at him incredulously. 'Really, Virgil? I'm dealing with probably the most skewed mind on the whole of the Disc and you want to give him a _tour_?'

Teatime noticed how he had forgotten the hisses.

'Sorry,' Virgil said sadly, retreating back behind Teatime. The serpent turned to face the man, rubbing his tentacles together.

'Ssso,' he said, grinning slightly, 'what to do with you?'

* * *

Teatime blinked.

He felt everything. Every stab of a sword slicing through someone's skin, every needle full of poison slipping in and the slow burn which engulfed him soon afterwards, every disappointment, every heartbreak, every stab of guilt which plagued people. It was like a wave of pain and sorrow.

And then it vanished. His mind was as clear as a bell, but still broken. The mirrors lay crushed in his mind and reflected the blank white walls around him as if they were rainbows arcing towards him, sharp as knives.

Then the guilt and the hurt was there again, crashing down on top of him. Screams, tears, shouts…

Then he was in a body, a woman being beaten by her husband. Then he was in a lord who had just felt the prick of a dagger through his robes, feeling the sickness rising within him as he contemplated the worthlessness of life. Then he was Medium Dave, feeling the terror of his mother's words. He was Chickenwire, stepping away from the wardrobe. He was Mr Brown, tumbling down the stairs and feeling every bone in his body break.

Teatime collapsed on the floor and cried. It didn't stop.


	59. Bright - Adora Belle Dearheart

**Ahoy from cloudy Canada!**

**I would first like to congratulate the country on its amicable people, lovely weather (mostly) and its eccentric road system. Seriously, I want to meet the person who managed to turn Toronto into a city sized Spaghetti Junction. **

**Anyway, this is not the right chapter for today. I haven't written Stone yet (sorry) but it should exist tomorrow**

**Enjoy :)**

* * *

It was the quietest, most respectable revolution ever in a world where political changes happened via chucked cobblestones and silent darts in midnight black rooms.

The golems were property. Therefore, they reasoned, they had to be owned by something, and in order to be owned by themselves they had to buy themselves. Dorfl had been set free, and he had bought Klutz and given him to himself, then they had bought Bobkes, and then Shmata, and over time nearly every golem in the city was owned by themselves. The problem came when they needed to work. Golems had to work, but no one wanted to pay them on account of the fact that even though most had decided that murder, sabotage and the like were immoral, with this new found freedom there was always the possibility that they might change their minds.

Adora Belle Dearheart, penniless and in disgrace after the bank had shut down and now addicted to cigarettes which created a cloud around her head, blocking out the rest of the world, was walking towards her mother's house in Dolly Sisters when she noticed a creature singing soulfully in a corner. The sound reverberated about her bones.

It wasn't singing, as such. It was more a melodious humming which seemed to come from the depths of the golem's soul or its chem or whatever powered it. There were no words, it seemed to Adora, just a long lament put to a tune.

She stalked up to it, spreading ash in her wake over the grubby white snow. 'Where did you learn that?'

The golem looked at her, puzzlement in its open sockets. 'It Comes From The Heart,' it said.

'But you've got no heart.'

'What Is A Heart, When It Comes Down To It?' the golem said ponderously. 'If It Is Merely An Endlessly Working Muscle, Then Why Is Such Stock Put By It? Surely The Brain Is The Seat Of The Feelings, And, Because I Have A Brain In An Orthodox Sense, I Am As Human As You.'

The words seemed to come straight from Adora's own mind.

That evening, she stalked up to Vetinari's office and stood, fuming both from the cigarettes and her own fury, outside the door. When Drumknott appeared she simply glared at him, as if daring him to make a comment.

'His lordship is quite busy,' he said, meeting her glare.

'Oh, he'll want to see me.'

Drumknott made the sensible decision not to go up against a Dearheart woman on the warpath, and entered Vetinari's room quietly. There was silence, then he appeared again.

'Well, I must say that this seems rather impromptu, Miss Dearheart-'

'Is he going to see me or not?'

'He will see you, but only briefly. May I enquire as to what business you have with his lordship?'

'I'll tell him myself,' Adora said, pushing past him and slamming the door behind her.

What struck her first was how plain the room was. True, the Golden Throne of Ankh-Morpork was in the corner, languishing idly under a developing layer of dust, but apart from that there was no decoration anyway. In the depths of winter, the Patrician hadn't even lit a fire. Tiny icicles had formed on the window frame, giving Vetinari's view across the frosty city a more interesting border.

Vetinari looked up, smiling pleasantly. 'Ah, Miss Dearheart.'

'I need to speak to you about the golems,' she said, pulling a chair out with a scraping noise on the flagstones and throwing herself down on it. It had been a long day.

Vetinari raised an eyebrow, but didn't question her.

'It's disgusting, the way they're treated.'

'How do you mean?'

'They're like property!'

'They are property, Miss Dearheart,' Vetinari said slowly. 'They are belongings which own themselves.'

'So they're free!'

'No, they're owned by themselves.'

'What's the difference?'

'If you're free, truly free, then nothing else is allowed, by law, to own you. If you own yourself, who's to say someone can't give you a better price for yourself?'

Adora Belle stopped dead, trying to figure that out.

'It's remarkably simple to golems,' Vetinari said, watching her carefully.

'But no one's employing them!'

'Miss Dearheart, if you were an employer, would you willingly hire a being which you have, in the past, enslaved, made to work all hours of the day in terrible conditions-'

'That's my point!'

'And they will remember this. They've got no moral structure which they have to stand by now, they're not obliged to remain non violent, they have freedom. Employers don't like that.'

'Then we'll set up an organisation. You can hire a golem, they'll be required by the rules of the business to stay non violent, if they don't then they'll never get work again. And golems have to work. They have to have a master, it's unthinkable for them not to, isn't it?'

'Why would I allow that? Private trade of golems, it's almost slavery.'

'They can choose whether to join the group.'

'But then only golems who are registered for this organisation will find work, leaving other golems behind.'

'Exactly,' Adora said, then regretted it. This was politics, she could sense it.

'What would be in it for the city? What would be in it for me? I presume that you want some sort of legislation which means that golems have to be employed.'

'They need the same employment rights as the rest of us.'

'You mean no employment rights? Look, Miss Dearheart, you aren't going to completely overhaul the rights of everyone in this city just so that one race, which is a minority group at that, because you believe that they're special.'

'Why not?'

'Public opposition, my dear.'

'I'm no one's dear,' Adora snapped.

'I do apologise. As I was saying, you can't make me change the law for them.'

'Then I won't.'

'What if I try and stop you?' Vetinari asked, eyebrows raised. He was enjoying this.

'Then I'll do it anyway. Or I'll give you a special government rate.'

'Why, Miss Dearheart, why do you want to help the golems?'

'Because no one else is.'

'And that means you have to be?'

Adora stood up and slammed her hands down on Vetinari's desk. 'They are beautiful,' she hissed. 'They can make music which would even move your heart, they can create masterpieces, they never get tired or clumsy or old. They're perfect, but people are using them to muck out drains and stuff like that. I can think of humans with less skills than them, yet humans are alive and golems aren't!'

Vetinari regarded her calmly until she removed her hands. 'Some would say that they aren't biologically alive.'

'What is biologically alive? Because if it's having a soul, the golems do, because they think. They can sing and they can talk and they feel others' pain. Who's to say they're not alive?'

'The mob rule, certainly.'

'You're a tyrant!

'And as such I don't have to be persuaded by anyone, be it you or the mob rule. But, although I can't grant you legislation which means that the golems can't be hurt, I can't stop you setting up the organisation.'

Adora paused. 'But what's in it for you?'

'In time, I may be needed golems for some work which I am planning. It would be a lot simpler for me, and for the town, if there was a central organisation, and I like people to show initiative.'

'You're being patronising again,' Adora snapped.

'I do apologise.' Vetinari smiled fleetingly. 'I wish you the best of luck, as I would to anyone, but I would be grateful if you would take some advice from me.'

'What advice?'

'Be careful of the mob rule, Miss Dearheart. You may dismiss it as a trifle, but the unpopularity of the golems is not to be underestimated, and it is rational.' He held up a thin hand as she opened her mouth. 'I'm not saying that it's right, or fair, but you can sympathise with them. They've lost their jobs to things that they see as clay monsters whose only purpose is to work. They're jealous, in a way, because for golems it's simple - they work, they work, they work - so we're replaced by them.'

'But with this you'll be able to restrict their employability.'

'Even more than they already do? And, besides, I can't control your organisation. I have no legal right to.'

Adora's head was spinning. 'So you want me to do it, but you're not going to give me legislation for it.'

'Correct.'

'But why?'

He smiled again, another brief flicker on his otherwise blank face. 'Remember the mob rule, Miss Dearheart. It is a fool who tries to stand up against them.'

Adora paused, nodded, and turned on her stilettos, slamming the door behind her.

As Drumknott appeared from the shadows Vetinari turned to face him.

'She was rather...forward, was she not?' he asked, placing a pile of paper on Vetinari's desk.

'Quite,' Vetinari said blankly.

'Do you know her?'

'Miss Dearheart? I've never met her before.'

'She was unusually direct, then.'

'Miss Dearheart is known to speak her mind. Her whole family is, although most of them are remarkably poor at managing money.'

'It will be interesting to watch her then,' Drumknott observed, picking up a coffee mug. 'Do you think she'll win?'

'Against me and the Ankh-Morpork mob.' Vetinari shrugged. 'I wouldn't put it past her.'

* * *

Constable Dorfl knocked on Vimes's door, gentler than usual so that the hinges didn't break.

'Yes, constable?' Vimes asked, not raising his head from his paperwork.

'I Am Very Sorry, But I Will Not Be Able To Go On Patrol Tomorrow Night.'

Vimes thought about it for a moment. It couldn't be his grandmother's funeral, he was unlikely to be sick.

'Why do you need time off, Dorfl?'

'There Is A Meeting Of The Golem Trust, Run By Miss Adora Belle Dearheart.'

Vimes's internal filing cabinet produced a sheet and waved it in front of him. 'The crazy golem lady'

'She Is A Pioneer In Golem Rights, Sir,' Dorfl said reproachfully.

'Sorry, that came out wrong. The one who's been writing all the graffiti?'

'Yes, Sir.'

'Some of it quite offensive, I recall.'

Dorfl tried to shrug. 'She Is A Woman With Very Strong Opinions, Sir. However, She Is Only Trying To Further Our Cause.'

Vimes sighed. 'Fine, you can have time off. I'll put it down as your nana's funeral.'

'Thank You, Sir.'

'Oh, and can you tell her to stop writing the offensive slogans? Captain Carrot's getting very confused.'

'Of Course, Sir. If You Would Like Me To Explain It-'

'No thanks, Dorfl, but thanks for the offer,' Vimes replied, his face carefully blank.

'I Am Willing To Instruct,' Dorfl said helpfully.

'I said no, constable. Enjoy the meeting.'

* * *

Adora Belle Dearheart was certainly giving it her all.

The building if the Golem Trust had once been a derelict office in Dolly Sisters, and was now a smart painted, golden building with brass letters over the door.

The boarded up window rather spoiled the effect, but Adora knew that the opposition would die down over time. They'd find out that the golems were helpful, that they meant well, that they truly weren't trying to steal their jobs, and they'd accept them.

Vetinari's cassandraic warning about mob rule kept floating back up into her head, but she ignored it on principle. Vetinari wasn't helping.

Still, there was the odd brick tossed through the window now and again, they had tried to burn it down once but the ceramic constable Dorfl had gotten a little angry. The arsonists had fled, but she was sure that she had seen them in the crowds which periodically crowded around the Trust's buildings whenever there were food shortages, even though golems didn't eat, there was disease, which couldn't possibly be spread by golems, or there had been clouds in the sky recently. They were just scapegoats for anything and everything.

It made her mad.

But still, the Golem Trust was succeeding. They had found four golems trapped when the treacle mines had collapsed fifty years previously, still hacking away at the dense sugar crystals and carting them into a pile, even though there was no one there to see them.

One of the golems, she thought it was Bobkes, had heard them singing. Fifty years trapped, and they still sang.

It was like prisoners and solitary confinement, from what she had heard. They'd sing to themselves, talk to themselves to get some semblance of human contact so that they weren't completely alone. They had the echoes in their head.

The golems sang, that peaceful melody which spoke of longing and sorrow throughout the years and made her blood warm. The golem language, which she had been studying fervently for the last few months, felt like silver on her tongue every time she spoke it, and she had been trying to set up evening classes to inspire others to learn it. One person had attended, and that had been her mother, but she was sure that with the publication of her latest leaflets detailing the myth of the golden golems more people would be attracted to golem history.

Adora Belle Dearheart was wise, cynical as hell and a complete bastard. However, when it came to golems she honestly believed that people would want to learn about them. It was her fatal flaw.

But it turned out alright in the end.

* * *

'You have a message, my lord,' Drumknott said as he entered the room, seeing the Patrician poring over the Thud board.

'Who from?' Vetinari asked, moving a dwarf three spaces and noting down its coordinates.

'Adora Belle Dearheart.'

Vetinari stood up and took it from him, opening the seal which bore an intricate drawing of a golem.

In it was written 'I told you so'. Vetinari smiled slightly.

'My lord.'

'Oh, it's just the feeble arrogance and hopefulness which that woman shows, Drumknott.'

Drumknott's brow creased. 'That sounds like a bit of an oxymoron, if you don't mind me saying, sir.'

Vetinari seemed surprised as he threw the letter into the bin, where it landed perfectly. 'Of course it's an oxymoron, Drumknott. The woman wouldn't settle for anything else.'

'Is this one of these feminine mystiques, sir?'

'Oh, probably, Drumknott.' Vetinari looked glumly at the Thud board again. 'Do send this off to Lady Margolotta, will you?'

* * *

Adora glumly picked up the brick and tossed it perfectly back out of the jagged whole in the window. She had taken to buying cheap, thin glass ones now so that they didn't cost as much to repair, but she would rather die than keep it boarded up for more than a day.

Someone knocked on the door. Even though she was aware that criminals who wanted to throw bricks at her property didn't usually adhere to social niceties, she picked up the crossbow anyway. It was a good crossbow, she had bought it when she was travelling back home to Ankh-Morpork and wasn't quite sure what the reception from her mother would be, and she had a steady hand.

A hand pushed open the door and a man with absolutely no distinguishing features - brown hair, brown eyes, normal sized nose, normally cut hair - walked in. She didn't trust him on sight.

'Hands where I can see them, mister,' she told him, annoyed that it was such a cliched line.

It was just another day at the Golem Trust. Mysterious visitors and a brick through the window.

* * *

Two years later, even after the golden golems and that Lipwig man's big speech and fancy had, there was new graffiti on the walls of the buildings around the golem trust.

It read 'Touch us and you will pay'.

There was a picture of a bank note underneath it. A hundred dollar bill, the like of which had never been seen by most of the citizens of this part of the city, with an intricate painting of one of the golden golems on it. It seemed to stand away from the brick wall by some clever feat of drawing.

Already people were taking iconographs of it, hoping to print them out and use them. All shop keepers in the area, however, had been supplied with a real hundred dollar note, from which the face of an annoyed Samuel Vimes glared at them. Golems, they were all told, were on the thousand dollar bills.

You had to give that Lipwig man credit, Vimes thought angrily, punching the wall. Otherwise he'd nick it off you. Vimes had caught him trying to steal his cigar case once and had arrested him.

And there was that woman of his, the one who's first tried to attack Detritus then, when Angua was interviewing her, tried to run away. With the promise of instant retribution of the most painful kind from Angua if she ever tried that trick again, they had sent her away with a caution and a new stiletto heel.

Vimes wasn't sure whether this piece of graffiti could constitute a threat to the city. It was a threat, but it was one that would benefit them. Already they were hiring more golems in the Watch because, as Dorfl said, they were very helpful and whilst he was at it could he possibly promote Dorfl to corporal while he was at it?

And every single damn day a leaflet from the bloody Golem Trust was posted through the door. Angua said she always smelt fag ash on it.

* * *

Lord Vetinari had also seen the graffiti. You didn't stay long in Ankh-Morpork without listening to the walls, but this was plain deceit and trickery. Vetinari, in a way, felt proud of Lipwig.

Oh, and Miss Dearheart, who had shown a remarkable tenacity and a wish to prove him wrong.

He rang the bell on his desk and Drumknott appeared.

'Prepare a message for Mister Lipwig, will you?'

'He's already here, sir.'

Vetinari was momentarily taken aback, and frowned at Drumknott. 'Pardon?'

'He arrived about an hour ago, sir, but said to wait until you needed him.'

'Oh.' Vetinari paused to curse the nerve of him. 'Well, send him in, then. In about half an hour.'


	60. Stone - Vetinari and Margolotta

It was quite a beautiful sight, in a way, albeit one that made you consider the brevity of life and the passage of time with regards to the fragility of the human body. The figures which stood in the caverns had been alive once, they had talked and walked and sat down to play this last game of Thud without ever expecting that they would end up like _this_.

Incredible, Vetinari mused as he walked down the stone corridors which had once been tunnels where water, carrying dissolved limestone, had sloshed through, covering the creatures in a fine layer of stone, that this scene, so important to history, had been preserved perfectly. It was almost like it had been planned.

Vimes had been very excited because it would mean that dwarfs and trolls might actually stop fighting for the sake of tradition, because tradition had turned out to be based on lies. Vetinari, however, who was a lot less idealistic than the usually cynical commander, just saw it as another political negotiation. Nothing could stop the trolls and the dwarfs fighting, they were opposed to each other because trolls were large rocks and dwarf custom was to carry pickaxes, and Vetinari had long given up on anything but relative calm.

But Vimes wouldn't think of it that way. However much the Commander of the Watch liked to point out his cynicism, he had a fatal flaw in that he saw everything as a crime, so everything had to have a motive. Tradition wouldn't be acceptable to him, although an ambush would, and now that the apparent motive was gone it was simply logical to him that they would stop fighting. Oh, not immediately, not even Vimes would expect that, but maybe it would be a little less strained.

Vetinari entered the cavern, filled head to toe with stalactites, stalagmites and enough frozen trolls and dwarfs to reenact the usual Koom Valley recreation ten times over.

'Incredible, isn't it, my lord,' a voice by his navel said. Vetinari was a tall man.

He looked down at Rhys Rhysson and smiled the smile of a man who's not quite sure what to expect but is nevertheless trying to hide it. He could have put on a completely blank face, but had a feeling that Rhys was one of those people who was very good at deciphering them. Someone, in essence, who couldn't be trusted, and Vetinari liked to think of himself as a completely untrustworthy bastard.

'All formed naturally, sir?' he asked politely, a faint smirk on his lips.

'Of course, my lord. Hundreds of years of exposure to calcium carbonate deposits, which tends to accumulate and solidify, has preserved them perfectly.'

'Much like the fat mines.' Vetinari had seen a few examples of deep fried mammoths on his journeys around Uberwald.

'A historical artefact indeed,' the Low King said solemnly, choosing not to mention Ankh-Morpork's exploitation of their ambassador's wife in seizing as much fat as possible. He turned away and caught someone's eye across the cavern, who waved.

'I believe you already know Lady Margolotta von Uberwald,' he said casually.

'You could say so, yes,' Vetinari replied, his face carefully blank. Rhys gave him a sharp look.

'She is hoping to unite the species in her part of Uberwald.'

'Her part?'

The Low King looked uncomfortable. 'Well, the overground part of Uberwald. We below make our own decisions.'

Vetinari walked slowly over to where Lady Margolotta was standing, surrounded by nobles who were trying not to stand too close to her. The Low King tried to match his pace.

'And what of the werewolves?' Vetinari enquired.

'Their power has been...reduced, let us say. Though I have no doubts that they will not lie low for long.'

Vetinari nodded and turned towards Margolotta, who had finally gotten away from the crowds.

'Lord Vetinari,' she said politely, inclining her head slightly. Although this was technically a state occasion, she was still dressed head to toe in dark pink and had a tiny bat necklace around her neck. He remembered giving it to her.

'Lady Margolotta,' he replied, equally polite. 'And how have you been?'

'Oh, I've been vell. Ze doggies have not been as vell, I regret to say, though ve of the vampiric disposition thrive.'

'I'm glad to hear that.'

'And how is ze sprawling veight vhich is your fair city?'

Him and Margolotta had never stopped trading various insults about their respective domains, not even when he had been a teenager with dreams and she had just been a bored younger daughter from one of the aristocratic families. Hers was a barren outcrop full of remote castles, his was a messy drain on the Discworld. In the privacy of his mind, he had always thought she had got the better end of the deal.

'It's well. Complex, as usual.'

'How is ze Commander Vimes?'

'Angry, as usual. The dwarfs aren't ever so fond of him after he crashed through here and killed half a dozen of them.'

'I heard that it was thirty,' Margolotta mused, spinning her glass around in her fingers elegantly.

'And a dog?'

'Well guessed,' she said cattily, winking at him. 'For now, Vetinari, let us get back to business.'

* * *

It was later. For Margolotta, it was several whiskeys, or possibly vhiskeys later but vampires were well known not to suffer from the effects of alcohol, but for Vetinari it was just several waters later.

He didn't like parties. They were a waste of time, he had to talk to a lot of people who were either ignorant snobs or just idiots and worst of all, he had to smile. Overall, it wasn't putting him in a good mood.

He walked through the streets of Ham-On-Koom, which had been overflown overnight by politicians and historians of the sort who wore thick glasses and bow ties every day. So far, only the politicians had been let into the mines.

No one, now, was sure who the mines belonged to, which was causing a little bit of friction between the leaders and ambassadors, who had no idea what they were trying to achieve by being there. Some said that the deep down dwarfs, who were technically the ones who had discovered the tunnels first, should take control of the mines, but they were shushed into silence when someone pointed out that they had committed a lot of crimes to make sure that no one else discovered the secret so probably weren't up to the responsibility, and it was quite hard to run the tunnels from the cells. Others thought that the dwarfs commanded by the Low King should take them over, which raised complaints from Mr Shine, who had been sitting in the corner quietly, merging into the dark with his dark, hooded cloak and generally minding his own business. No one suggested that the dwarfs and the trolls should work together for fear of being laughed out of the place.

Vetinari sighed. Bloody, bloody politics.

Then he caught a flash of pink in the gloom, so helpfully standing in the way of the light so that a long shadow stretched in the alleyway. He caught the glimpse of incisor as she saw him.

'Drumknott?' he called behind him.

'Yes, my lord?'

'Can you please make your way back to the embassy on your own. I have ... private business to attend to.'

Drumknott looked confused, but realised that he wasn't being paid to enquire about what his boss got up to in his private life.

'Very well, sir.'

'Take the bodyguards with you.'

Drumknott paused. The bodyguards that he had hired were masters of concealment, that was why they were lurking in the shadows wearing very thin boots. However, he would have been surprised if they were better than Vetinari.

'Are you sure, my lord?'

'Completely.'

Drumknott sighed and nodded to the shadows, who suddenly became visible. He walked off, them trailing behind.

Vetinari turned to the shadow behind him. 'And you, please.'

A man sheepishly stepped out from behind a building and nodded to him, walking away quickly.

Vetinari walked fifty yards in an apparently random direction then ducked down an alleyway. A figure was standing at the end, silhouetted in the orange light of the street's oil lamps.

'Really, Margolotta?' he said wearily, walking towards her. She turned round and grinned at him.

'I thought you hadn't seen me for a minute there.'

'You knew I'd seen you.'

She shrugged and he offered his arm. She linked hers in his and they strolled nonchalantly out of the mouth of the alley.

'There might still be politicians around,' he warned.

'You make that sound like we aren't politicians,' she joked. 'Besides, let them talk. There have been jokes for years.'

'You're forgetting your accent.'

'I'm sorry,' she said, affronted. 'Vould you like me to put it back on?'

'Don't bother.'

They walked along in companionable silence past the mansions in Downtown Ham - On - Koom, which Vetinari had to admit didn't have the same ring as Downtown Bonk, until they reached what looked like a miniaturised Gothic remote castle, complete with crenellations, lead paned stained glass windows depicting scenes of torture and a tower befitting a maiden rather thinner and fairer than Lady Margolotta, though it was good for her to give it a go.

Vetinari stared up at it. 'Really, Margolotta?'

'It's not technically mine.'

'You've stolen a mini Gothic castle?' he asked, eyebrows raised. She rolled her eyes.

'I'm renting it out from a lovely couple who come with me to the Temperance Meetings. Count and Countess Notfaroutoe?'

'Arthur and Doreen Winkings?'

'Yes, that's them. They can't really afford this place, what with the maintenance costs and the water for the moat, so I offered to rent it out from them for the discussions.'

Vetinari walked across the bridge, only a foot long, which spanned the moat, and stared at the door. It was double the size of him and took up most of the front of the house.

'They are people who pride themselves on appearances,' Margolotta said sadly, fishing a key the size of her hand from her pocket and sliding it into the door.

'I remember the complaints,' Vetinari said indistinctly, trying to work out how the door managed to stay upright with, it seemed, no hinges. The answer came when Margolotta swung open a door inside the door, which was considerably smaller, and creaked as much as any gothic door should.

He was also very grateful when he found out that the door led straight into an opulently furnished bedroom, completely done up in red velvet and gold.

'I've made some changes,' Margolotta told him.

Vetinari looked the room up and down then grabbed her around the waist, spinning her around. 'Good.'

The door slammed behind them.

* * *

Vetinari woke up.

Many people thought that the Patrician didn't sleep, and they had good reason to. In reality he just didn't need much sleep and had a very good team of informers which could tell him immediately whether someone was going to pay a visit.

He was also very fond of coffee.

But this - sleeping soundly then waking up as the day was breaking - felt new. He liked it.

Rolling over, he saw Margolotta lying next to him, breathing heavily. Thank gods he had gotten rid of the bat printed clothes.

She opened her eyes and stared at the ceiling. 'Well, well.'

Vetinari didn't reply, just rolled out of bed and started to pull his clothes on. Margolotta sat up and pulled a blanket around herself.

'Young Vetinari,' she teased.

'Not so young now.'

'To a woman of five hundred, my dear, fifty is a mere child.'

'Forty seven,' he said grumpily. 'You always forgot.'

'I'm sorry, I have a lot on my mind. Maybe you just act older than you are.'

He smiled slightly and stood up, admiring the room for the first time. It was like someone had tried to create the air of an ancestral home where the person knew the name of their great great great grandfather's horse, but in a rather small room where a huge four poster bed consumed much of the space.

Margolotta was watching him. 'Yes, they didn't leave me much to work with.'

'And what would have happened if I hadn't come back?'

'Has that ever happened before?'

He turned to face her, the beginnings of a grin stretching the corners of his lips. 'You know, most people of my age,' he said pointedly, 'are married, or they have children, or they're single and have given up. I'm in a relationship with a vampire which consists of endless games of Thud and the occasional hook-up when we're both at political meetings together.'

She shrugged. 'Blunt.'

'Honest.'

She grinned. 'Would you have it any other way?'

* * *

And back to politics.

Drumknott had been very worried, but Vetinari had explained to him the relationship between the two heads of state and how it was far more beneficial to leave rumours to themselves rather than needlessly exacerbating them with the truth. In those words. Drumknott had simply nodded and placed a very large amount of paperwork on his desk.

And now he was back in the cavern and weaving himself through the packed dwarfs and trolls who were tied up in endless negotiations. In a way, the presence of the other leaders turned it into a spectator sport.

He had come personally, of course; as the leader of the biggest city in the world he couldn't possibly send one of the nobles or worse, Vimes, to deal with the politics. They may be useful in their own special way, but you needed a mind like a corkscrew just to understand the history behind these negotiations, let alone what each party wanted.

Also, he got to smile privately at some of the buffoons that other countries had sent along.

Also, he got to see Margolotta, and really didn't want his 'cesspit of a city', as she had called it the day before, to have to be represented by someone like Lord Rust.

They were all sitting politely together on rows of chairs that had been set up in one of the tunnels, after it was cleaned and made dry by Rhys's workers. Now they were officially there to be witnesses to the signing of a historic treaty between the dwarfs and the trolls, though no one knew what was in it.

Margolotta, noticing him staring into space, gave him a wink. He turned to face the front quickly, face not betraying any indication that he had seen her.

The dwarf party, led by a furious looking Rhys Rhysson wearing his helmet of office, which was probably doing nothing for his mood, entered the room and positioned themselves on one side of the huge table. The other side was then occupied by the trolls, but the muttering around the room didn't change until Mr Shine rolled his sleeves up for a brief second.

Rhys nodded appreciatively at the silence. 'We are here today to announce a new change in the relations between our two species.'

Vetinari noticed that quite a few of the dwarfs and the trolls looked more than disgruntled with whatever Rhys was going to announce. There were certainly a lot of battle axes on display.

'We have decided-'

And was that Rhys looking annoyed as well? Vetinari nearly rubbed his hands together.

'That to further our diplomatic relations we must arrange more times to meet. Therefore, we have decided today to arrange another meeting.'

There were a few discussions in whispers around the room along the lines of 'Are you bloody kidding me?'

Vetinari wasn't surprised. Politics took time, and he had often set up a committee to investigate a committee, just to occupy people's time. It kept them out of mischief.

The party of trolls and dwarfs had departed, no doubt to argue amongst themselves, and the room was left in uproar at the obstinance of each of them. Only Margolotta seemed to be silent, having positioned herself in the corner of the room with a fluted glass and an amused expression.

Gradually, the room was clearing. Vetinari moved over to her.

'A disappointment, perhaps,' she said, lighting a cigarette.

'Certainly slow progress,' he replied, looking around. She noticed his caution.

'Really, Vetinari? Zey'll all be talking amongst themselves about vhy progress has to move so tediously along, or vether it'll mean zat ze dwarfs and ze trolls vill ever agree on anyzing, zey won't be interested in the conversation between two leaders in a corner.'

'Certainly not. It's the press that I'm worried about.'

They turned round simultaneously and caught sight of a furtive William de Worde, trying to hide behind a solidified troll and hiding an iconograph behind his back. He gave them a sheepish grin and walked away quickly.

'Zer press are a problem,' Margolotta said pensively. 'I've alvays been against a free press. It just causes problems.'

'Sometimes, my lady, it isn't easy to move against the current. I have found use for the press, however.'

'Of course you have.' Margolotta sighed and turned back to the milling crowds, who were still looking confused. 'Zere not good at politics, I'm afraid. One odd decision vhich is, of course, completely predictable to ze likes of you and me, completely throws them.' She blew out a delicate smoke ring. 'Such a shame.'

'Indeed.'

'You're being very monotonous, my lord. Agreeing with everything I say.'

'I wasn't away that I was.'

She winked at him, a wink that no politician should ever have to employ. It told you that she knew absolutely everything about you and was definitely not going to tell on you, because that would be no fun.

She turned on her heels, which were a sensible inch above the ground and painted black, and grinned at him. 'Until next time, Vetinari.'

He nodded, and moved towards the exit.


	61. Stories - Young Sam

**This was inspired, in part, by two wonderful and hilarious fics that I found about a week ago - The New Verse by samvimes and Where's My Cow by shewhoguards. Read them. Not, however, in the presence of sensitive family members who want to know why you're laughing. **

**Enjoy :)**

* * *

'But _Sybil_…'

'The tights, Sam, are not optional. In fact, I was told by Havelock that he much looks forward to seeing you in them.'

'I bet he does,' Vimes muttered, hoisting the tights up*.

*It is one of the rules of the multiverse that there is no elegant way to pull on tights, be it sitting down, standing up or, in dire situations, lying on your back with your legs in the air trying to stretch them so that the crotch of them doesn't hang around your knees.

Suddenly, a thought struck him. 'What about Young Sam?'

'Purity can look after him.'

'Purity's out with Willikins. Remember, we said that because we were out we didn't need them tonight.'

Sybil's eyes narrowed as she frowned. 'Sam, you are not using your son as an excuse not to attend this event. Everyone'll be there.'

'It'll be a lot tidier without me.'

'Don't say that.' She brushed a piece of lint off his shoulder. 'The Watch can look after him.'

Vimes turned around slowly in shock. 'I'm sorry, _what_?'

'Well, you're always saying how helpful they are. And they spend so much time with you, they're bound to have picked up some parenting tips.'

There was an added dimension to Sybil's words, he could sense it. She was criticising the Watch, his Watch, saying he spent too much time there again, even though she never actually said it you could always tell that was what she thought.

Well, he did spend a little too much time there. But it was his job.

'Who were you thinking of looking after him?' he tried to ask nonchalantly, pulling on the dratted pointy shoes with buckles.

'How about that lovely Corporal Nobbs?'

Vimes raised his eyebrows and thought about an excuse better than 'But it's _Nobby_.' He couldn't find one.

'Nobby Nobbs?' he asked.

'Why not? He's always taken a liking to Young Sam.'

'He's not particularly…responsible.'

'How about Cheery, then?'

'I suppose…'

'Or Captain Carrot. A very responsible man, you've always said.'

'Yes,' Vimes said slowly, imagining Angua's face. 'Responsible.'

'That's settled, then,' Sybil said brightly, pulling on her coat. 'We'll take him down there now.'

* * *

Vimes entered the watch house and caught sight of Angua disappearing up the stairs.

'Sergeant!' he yelled.

Her face appeared around the bend in the stairs, looking worried, her eyes fixed on the basket he was holding out in front of him. 'Yes?'

'Come here.'

She walked down the stairs with some trepidation.

'I need you to look after Young Sam,' he said.

She looked down at the baby, then back up at him. 'Me?'

'Yes.'

She raised her eyebrows. 'Is there some grand plan behind all this, sir? Because you know me and children.'

'Well, it's either you or Carrot at the moment, and he'll probably try and take the baby down to the Shades with him on patrol.'

Angua considered this for a minute, then tentatively took the basket from his arms. 'How long will you be gone?'

'It's one of Vetinari's balls, so gods only know.'

'I thought Vetinari had no balls.'

'Well, he does now. Maybe he's found a liking for them.' Angua's normally blank face twitched slightly and he grinned.

'What do I…do? I've never looked after a baby.'

'Just make sure he's fed. Oh, don't look at me like that, you can give him ordinary milk. And read him stories, or sing to him-'

'You want me to sing to him?'

'Is there a problem with that, sergeant?'

'I don't know many songs.'

'Neither does he. Just make it up as you go along.'

'Right.' She set the basket down on the desk and lifted Young Sam out carefully, making sure he was completely covered by the blankets. 'Like this?'

He repositioned Sam's head slightly so that it was resting against her arm. 'You need to keep the head supported.'

'Okay.' She tilted her head to one side as she looked down at the baby. 'I take it I'm not going on patrol.'

'Get someone else to do it for you.'

She nodded. 'Enjoy the ball.'

'You couldn't just say you can't do it, could you? So I can get out of these bloody tights.'

She looked down and smirked at him. 'You said it was me or Carrot. And he'd be very enthusiastic.'

Vimes sighed and headed out of the door, leaving the child in Angua's arms.

* * *

Angua carried Sam up the stairs, the basket being held by her little finger as she tried to open the door whilst holding a baby, an awkwardly shaped basket and all her paperwork. She set the baby down in the basket on top of her desk and opened a window, vaguely aware that babies shouldn't get too hot.

Young Sam regarded her with his father's interrogatory brown eyes,the sharp expression contrasting with the roundness of the baby's cheeks. She laughed at his expression and picked up a report written by one of her newest recruits, complete with the usual mixture of spelling mistakes and grammar inaccuracies.

'You could probably write better than this,' she told the child, who gurgled.

She smelt Cheery coming up the stairs. 'Come in.'

The dwarf entered and immediately saw the baby. 'Is there something you're not telling me?'

'It's Young Sam. Vimes is at a ball.'

'Oh, Vetinari's? Some of the officers were talking about it earlier on, and singing something.' She blushed.

'Let me guess, 'Vetinari has no balls'? It's a classic.' Cheery turned even redder and Angua grinned. 'So, what did you want?'

'I wanted to know why I heard a baby in your office.'

'Oh, can you cover my patrol? It's Dolly Sister's, so you shouldn't see too much.'

'I hope I'm going to get paid for this.'

'You'll have to take it up with Vimes.'

'Does Carrot know about this?'

'Not yet. He's still on patrol.'

Cheery smiled at her, meaning complete friendliness. 'Look at you, Angua, looking after a baby. I never thought I'd see the day.'

If it had been anyone else Angua would have thrown a folder at them, but Cheery really didn't seem to mean anything by it, instead patting Young Sam on the head as she walked out of the room, ready to tell every single officer that Angua was looking after a baby.

'Damn,' she muttered.

The baby seemed to raise its eyebrows.

'What, so I'm not allowed to swear? He could have told me that.'

* * *

Lady Sybil and Sam twirled round the dance floor as well as someone wearing a dress to rival a Bird of Paradise and someone trying to adjust his tights half way through a dance can twirl.

'This is nice, isn't it, dear,' Sybil said, subtly steering him away from the edge of the floor.

'Very,' Vimes said absently.

'The ice flamingo looks nice, doesn't it?'

'They've got a very good sculptor.' Vimes was silent for a moment, then his head snapped up as his brain caught up. 'What ice flamingo?'

'Don't worry about Young Sam, dear.'

'I'm not worrying about Sam.'

'Yes you are.'

'No, I'm worrying about whether I've possibly jeopardised a relationship by giving two people a baby to look after. I trust Angua.'

'Then you're worrying about Young Sam.'

'Not directly.'

They managed to stop twirling and stumble off the dance floor. Lady Sybil moved over to speak with the Dowager Duchess of Quirm, who was literally glowing in fluorescent green, and Vimes waited despondently by the buffet.

He wasn't worried about Young Sam. He'd trust his men with his life, if not a dollar, and he knew that they knew that he'd kill them and then jump all over their graves if they let anything happen to him. He just didn't like to be apart from him for too long.

He'd be fine.

* * *

Carrot entered her office and did a slight double take as he saw Angua cuddling the baby. Cuddling, in Angua's opinion, was something that happened to other people and definitely not them, especially not when there had been an aniseed bomb and her eyes had been watering non-stop for hours, such as the night before.

'Angua?'

'It's Young Sam,' she said for what seemed like the several thousandth time. Far too many people had simply presumed that she could hide a pregnancy for nine months and magically come up with a six month old.

'I know that. I just wondered why you were hugging him.'

'He looked sad. He was crying for a bit too, but now he's stopped.' She looked up at him tiredly. 'Babies cry loudly.

'What was wrong with him?'

'Oh, I don't know. But he seems to like being hugged.' Angua shifted him slightly so that his head was resting against her collarbone and picked up her pen. 'How are you?'

'I'm fine, I'm fine.' He reached out to her. 'Can I hold him?'

She carefully placed the baby in Carrot's arms, making sure that his head was supported as Vimes had told her. The baby seemed tiny in Carrot's huge hands.

Carrot began to gently rock the baby until he drifted off to sleep then looked up at Angua. She simply leaned against him and they watched the child sleeping, stretching his arms out towards Carrot as he dreamed.

* * *

The clock struck six.

Young Sam woke up, started to cry, and jerked Angua and Carrot out of their reverie. Looking at the clock they realised they had only been sitting there for a couple of minutes, but the cry made them jump out of their skin.

They all knew the ritual. It was six o'clock, the Book needed to be read. Vimes had told them all that under no circumstances could he miss Six O'Clock, regardless of the criminal or the case. The book was hidden under a blanket in the basket and Angua pulled it out, noticing how within a week of buying a new copy Sam had nearly chewed through the spine.

'I've got no idea how to do the sounds,' she said, handing it to him. He flicked through it and started to smile.

'Maybe not,' he said, passing Sam back to her and moving out of the door. She heard him calling for Cheery and some of the other officers.

Young Sam's eyes widened and he settled down as she opened the book, nodding to the other officers who came into the room and glaring at them to say if this was ever mentioned to the new recruits she would make them pay.

'We need to delegate,' Carrot said. He pointed at Detritus. 'You're doing the hippopotamus, Cheery can do the chickens, Reg, you can do the sheep. What else is there?'

'Horse? And there's a pig.' She turned over a couple of pages. 'That seems to be it.'

'Colon, you can do the pig.' Angua kept her face carefully blank as Colon went red. 'I'll do the horse. Angua, you can read.'

It was just another job to Carrot. You do this, and you do this, and you continue imitating a cow like we're not crowded into my office reading a picture book to the Commander's son because if we don't he'll scream the place down.

It did not start well.

'Where is my cow?' Angua read, watching Young Sam's eyes brighten. 'Is that my cow? It goes-'

There was an awkward pause.

'Reg, that's you.'

'BAAAAAAAAA!' Reg Shoe yelled, startling all of the watchmen.

'Thank you, Reg,' Carrot said happily.

'It is a sort of sheep,' Angua continued. Carrot shot her a warning look, but she carried on regardless. 'That is not my cow.'

The next verse was better.

'Where is my cow? Is that my cow? It goes-'

'Neigh!' Carrot tried, then looked embarrassed.

'It is a horse. That is not my cow.'

By the third verse the whole of the Watch was starting to get into the spirit of things. Angua was even inserting the exclamation marks.

'Where is my cow? Is that my cow? It goes-'

Detritus's 'HHHHRRRUUUUUUGGGGHHHH' nearly shattered the windows.

'It is a hippopotamus! That is not my cow! Where is my cow? Is that my cow? It goes-'

'Cluck!' clucked Cheery, looking very pleased with herself.

'It is a chicken! That is not my cow! Where is my cow? Is that my cow? It goes-'

'Oink,' said Colon sadly.

'It is a pig! That is not my cow! Where is my cow? Is that my cow? It goes-'

The watch looked at each other. 'We forgot the cow,' Colon said glumly.

Angua sighed. 'I'll do it.'

'It goes moooo! Yes, that's my cow! Hooray, hooray, it's a wonderful day, for I have found my cow.'

The last line was done by the Watch in unison, who then looked sheepish* and tried to pretend that the last five minutes hadn't happened.

*Or piggish. Or hippopotamusish.

'Thank you, officers,' Carrot said solemnly as Angua shut the book. 'You may now return to your patrols.'

'You took people away from their patrols to read a story book?' Angua asked in astonishment.

He looked surprised. 'To read Where's My Cow to Young Sam? Yes.'

* * *

Vetinari, as it turned out, did not like balls.

He was standing morosely in a corner and watching the relative calm of the city, which was contrasting nicely with the chaos going on inside the hall. People were certainly taking advantage of the fact that this was Vetinari's first ball in power which, as far as Vimes had heard, had resulted in a few cracked ribs and three broken noses.

He walked over to where the Patrician was standing and leaned against the wall, sipping his glass of lemonade. 'I understand why you have no balls, sir,' he said gravely as the Patrician turned round and surveyed the carnage which his hall had turned into.

'Do you, commander?'

'Oh yes, sir. It's because of the mess they make.'

Vetinari watched Vimes's completely blank face for a moment or two, then looked away. 'Indeed, Sir Samuel. I've noticed that you have managed to stay for the full length of the ball so far.'

'Sir?' Vimes asked, looking innocent.

'No criminals have been chased through the streets demanding your assistance. Nowhere's been broken into. The Watch House hasn't even caught fire again.'

'Well, even if it was only a rumour it needed to be dealt with.'

'Quite. You could, of course, have just looked out of the window and seen a lack of flames billowing from Pseudopolis Yard.'

'Caught up in the moment, sir,' Vimes said stoically.

'Of course, commander. Oh, I see that your wife wants you.'

Vimes looked around and saw Lady Sybil staring at him pointedly from across the room. 'Probably wants to introduce me to some lord or whatever.'

'Don't let me detain you,' Vetinari said cheerfully, moving over to the drinks.

Vimes walked over to his wife and put on his Talking To The Upper Class smile. It was slightly forced, he had to admit.

'This is Lady Eorle, you must know her husband,' Sybil trilled. Vimes held out a hand and shook the woman's hand, noticing how her bright pink dress looked odd next to hair as red as Carrot's. 'She's recently-'

Vimes then switched off. They were all the same to him.

* * *

Angua had just put Young Sam back in his basket and sat down at her desk to have a rest when Carrot opened the door quietly.

'He's asleep?'

'I think so,' she whispered.

He crept in and pulled up a chair next to her, watching as she struggled through one of Nobby's reports about a crime that, he had to assure her, he did not Comit, even though she had seen trying to flog a suspiciously shiny 'silver' bracelet to the barmaid at the Bunch of Grapes.

'So, are children starting to grow on you?' he asked, fiddling with one of Young Sam's baby blue blankets.

She leaned back and looked at him. 'I don't know, Carrot. I mean, Sam's nice and all, but you don't know what might happen…'

She trailed off as Carrot stood up and moved towards her. Closing her eyes, she reached up and felt his lips touch hers gently. The world turned golden as she stood up to move closer to him.

The baby chuckled and they broke apart, looking awkwardly down at it. 'I thought he was asleep,' Angua said wearily.

'Maybe a baby's not the best idea.'

'Maybe not.'

They heard footsteps coming up the stairs and a muffled conversation.

'_You shouldn't have said that to Lady Eorle.'_

_'I wasn't to know.'_

_'I remember telling you that her son had run off with the kitchen maid.'_

_'I'm sorry, Sybil, but they all sound the same to me-'_

There was a pause as they reached Angua's office.

'Come in?' she suggested, trying not to smile as Vimes opened the door.

'How's he been?'

'Oh, he's been good. I fed him, but Nobby could only find skimmed at this time.'

'And you read the book?'

'We all read the book.'

Vimes looked down at his son, blissfully asleep now. 'Good good.' He picked up the basket carefully, trying not to disturb him, and smiled at Sybil. 'You were right, dear.'

'How was she right?' Carrot asked.

'Oh, she said that I couldn't use Young Sam as an excuse not to go to Vetinari's ball.'

'How was Vetinari's ball?'

'Catastrophic, as we all expected.'

'He won't be holding any more balls in the future,' Sybil sighed.

Both Angua and Vimes tried not to catch each other's eye, insteadlooking down at the baby. 'Thanks, Angua.'

'That's fine.'

He nodded and walked out of the door, taking Sybil's hand as he left.

'_You see, Sam_,' they heard through the wall.

'_Yes, dear. I may no longer use my son as an excuse not to attend Vetinari's balls.'_

Angua sighed and leaned against Carrot's shoulder, smiling as he slipped his arm around her waist. 'Where were we?' he whispered.

* * *

Vimes stormed back into the watch house half an hour later.

'I've left the bottle,' he said to an astonished looking Cheery, who didn't even know that her commander existed without a breastplate, not least if he was wearing colours.

'Um, I wouldn't go in there, sir.'

'Why not?'

'Well, it's sort of to do with babies.'

Vimes opened and shut his mouth a couple of times. 'Oh.'

'Yes, sir. From what I can hear.'

'Really?'

'It seems so.'

Vimes considered this for a moment, erasing several mental images from his head in the process. 'I'll get it tomorrow.'


	62. Chime - Susan Sto Helit

There is a clock.

It only goes round once.

It probably isn't a good idea to wait until it chimes.

* * *

The clock chimed.

* * *

It was a dull, echoing noise which spread across the dark hills like a curse, floating through the night and alerting the hooded figures that had been waiting for so long for this.

They disappeared, and reappeared right next to the clock., whose massive hand was stood straight upright and humming softly as it vibrated.

One said, It is time.

Azrael turned around, which took several aeons to happen, and stared at them.

**_WHAT_**** IS TIME?**

The Auditors began to look uncertain. One said, You promised.

**I DO NOT ****_PROMISE_**** TO THE LIKES OF YOU. **

You said that we had that amount of time, one said, pointing at the clock. Once that was done, it could be destroyed.

**I DO NOT WANT IT DESTROYED. **

You said that it could be, one said firmly. You said that we had to tolerate it until the clock went round, then we could remove the imperfections.

**YOU MEAN LIFE**, Azrael said flatly.

It is an... irregularity. We will not tolerate flaws.

Azrael looked at them with a new found respect based upon horror. **YOU HAVE THAT MUCH HATRED? **he asked. **YOU CARE THAT LITTLE?**

To care is to have a personality. We do not have personalities.

**_I_**** HAVE A PERSONALITY. **

We know, one said. But it was your downfall. You are trapped, it said gleefully, trapped in a prison of your own making.

We could destroy you, another said.

**NO**, Azrael said firmly.** YOU COULD DESTROY ANYTHING BUT ME. **

They watched him. Yes, one said. We know. That's why we're going to.

* * *

Death heard the chime.

All Deaths, it is said, span from a central Death of all the worlds, Azrael, who can therefore control all of the Deaths that had spawned from it. It was a complete myth, here on the Discworld, formed by people's compulsion to question things.

Oh, Azrael was there before. He was rumoured to have been there before humanity began, because it was a fear of death that was present in every living thing, in every microbe and amoeba which had created him. But the people asked: Who is Death's master?

It's questions like this which _really_ screw up the natural world. Not natural as in flowers and trees, but the forces which govern our world completely apart from humanity, beyond their control and their influence because otherwise people might start getting funny ideas like learning how to fly. And that was why the Auditors hated humanity. They weren't subject to these forces.

He had a dilemma, he thought, as he watched Albert fry his potatoes in a gallon of oil. He had promised not to get involved in the end of the world, it was part of his contract with Azrael where Death continued to exist, but he had to promise to let the Auditors do their own thing, which had gone really well so far.

But he had a personal connection now.

The Discworld died, Susan died. It was that simple. And although he had promised not to get involved it wasn't a policy that he'd ever followed, as such, and now he was really reaping the benefits.

ALBERT? he called.

The man entered, wiping his hands on his apron which was stained by unknowable greases already. 'Yes, master.'

I NEED TO VISIT SUSAN.

'But you promised not to, master,' Albert said calmly, well accustomed to how Death kept insisting that he should see his granddaughter. He had phases of loneliness now, where he would go and stare over the golden corn for hours or visit Ankh-Morpork and get upset that no one could see him, when in reality, well, once he had gotten out of the lonely spell, he knew that it was a good thing that people couldn't see him. That sort of thing led to a lot of confusion.

IT'S THE AUDITORS.

'It's always the auditors.'

IT IS THE END OF THE WORLD, ALBERT.

Albert's mouth paused while his brain caught up. 'Oh,' he managed.

PRECISELY.

'But what can she do?'

SHOW THEM WHAT IT MEANS TO BE HUMAN.

'Well...' Albert collected his private thoughts about Death's granddaughter together and managed to come out with: 'She's not ... that human.'

THAT IS IRRELEVANT. SHE KNOWS HOW TO BE HUMAN.

'No, she knows how to be Death's granddaughter. That's a bit different from human.'

Death looked at him, an expression of confusion in his blue eye sockets. WHAT DO YOU MEAN BY THAT?

'Nothing, master,' Albert said wearily. 'Go to her and see what she says.'

NOT HUMAN?

'It was a figure of speech, master,' Albert invented wildly.

Death scanned through all the idioms that he knew. ARE YOU SURE?

'Completely.'

HMMM...

* * *

Susan sat at the other end of the table and stared at Death.

'The end of the world,' she said blankly.

YES, Death replied, a shade tetchily. It had taken quite a lot to make Susan understand that.

'And this isn't one of your stupid wordplays like the sun won't come up?'

NO.

'Oh.'

There was a stunned silence as Death regarded his granddaughter, who he could have sworn didn't seem as lively, or as animated, as she usually did. There was a tiredness there which Susan, alive with stubbornness and obstinance, didn't usually have about her.

ARE YOU...WELL?

'I really don't think that's relevant,' Susan snapped. 'It's the end of the world, Grandfather.'

Well, at least she had got the general idea.

AND I NEED YOU TO STOP IT.

'How?'

SHOW THE AUDITORS WHAT IT MEANS TO BE HUMAN.

Susan froze, went dead still. Slowly, she turned back to the now sheepish looking seven foot skeleton at the other end of the long wooden table, who she just happened to be related to.

'Be human?' she asked incredulously. 'To be _human_?'

Death stayed silent, knowing from previous experiences of Susan ranting that it was a good idea to let her get it out of her system.

'Be _human_? I can walk through walls and be a little bit immortal and stop time and I'm really good at sports with a stick because my grandfather wields a scythe. I spend my days teaching grotty children who can't help pissing their pants to try and feel more normal, but then I just end up feeling worse because I take them on trips to mid-renaissance Genua after break time! I am not human!'

BUT BIOLOGICALLY-

'Biologically I shouldn't exist! Don't talk to me about genetics and all that crap, because it has no relevance, none whatsoever, to me. I'm Death's granddaughter, and you expect me to be able to show them humanity?'

She turned round and stalked over to the window, pointing out of it. 'Oh, you're going to say something like it would just be helping a relative, or it would be the same as taking your parents to Quirm or whatever. But my relative lives in a domain in a parasite universe where the lake is filled with bloody skeletal fish! That's not normal! The sky is a different shade of black to the grass but it's all black, because colours don't belong. In other people's parents' houses they have lace curtains. You have a bloody lifetimer library!'

I CAN TRY AND FIND SOME LACE... Death trailed off at Susan's glare.

'No. You'll imitate it, and the lace'll have a pattern of skulls on it or it'll be made of spider webs or whatever fits in here. Or it'll be so white you can't look at it, when everyone knows that they're not real lace curtains unless they're grey.'

THEY AREN'T?

She clenched her fists. 'I want _normal_. I spend my life talking to normal people in normal places in normal dimensions about normal things like the weather and house prices, and then I go and do a normal job with normal children who can't help pissing their pants every so often, and I live in a normal flat _without_ lace curtains, before you say anything, and I want to be normal!'

Death seemed perplexed. BUT DON'T THOSE THINGS BORE YOU?

'Of course they do! But I don't care, because at least this way I can bear some semblance to a normal girl who isn't constantly being called upon to fight monsters from the great unknown.'

THEY'RE CALLED AUDITORS, Death said, in what he thought was a helpful tone.

Susan turned and glared at him. 'All I want is to be normal. Why is that so hard?'

Death watched blankly as she walked out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

* * *

One, staring maliciously up at Azrael, said, You see? He cannot save them.

Azrael, from the depths of his blackened lungs, chuckled into the night. The sound rumbled through the void. **YOU KNOW NOTHING ABOUT HUMANITY. **

One said, It is impossible.

**MILLION TO ONE CHANCES CROP UP NINE TIMES OUT OF TEN. **

Azrael let the Auditors figure that out by themselves and turned to look over the Discworld. It glowed faintly, in a sort of greenish yellowish purple, the tiny shape of Great A'Tuin swimming into infinity and beyond.

He had grown fond of the little disc on the back of four elephants now, he had seen the fifth slide off and crash into the world, for precisely the reasons that the Auditors hated it. It was purely illogical. It was a world where the stories of people could create real worlds, where people's foolish beliefs could create gods and monsters and turn ordinary things into sacred items.

It was original. And Azrael was bored.

* * *

Susan stalked through the streets of Ankh-Morpork, glaring into the fog if it tried to offer any resistance.

As she pushed open the door of Biers a gust of stale air, heady with the aroma of thin beer, strong liquor and Igor's attempts at chips, enveloped her. She walked inside and the door creaked shut behind her.

Seeing her face, Igor plonked a gin and tonic down on the bar in front of her. She shook her head.

'Just gin, please, Igor.'

Igor frowned, making the stitches across his forehead move in a very disconcerting way. 'Now, Miss Susan, I know what women are like when-'

'GIVE ME THE DRINK, IGOR.'

Igor moved on automatic, grabbing the bottle of his best gin - a nice touch, Susan thought - and pouring it into a relatively clean shot glass without seeming to come into focus.

He blinked as she downed the drink.

'Hey, you promised not to do that! We had an agreement - I don't tell people that you're ... you know, and _you_ don't use your granddad's voice on me!'

Susan cleared her throat; doing the voice left her with a feeling that she didn't have tonsils anymore. 'Sorry, Igor. It was getting pretty desperate. Another?'

'I don't like doin' this, Miss Susan. It's nothing personal, only-'

'ANOTHER GIN, IGOR.'

Igor's hand moved instinctively again to grab the bottle and pour it. He shuddered as his brain caught up.

'Hey, you did it again!'

'Sorry, Igor.'

'I don't know why I tolerate this,' he muttered, taking her money.

'I always pay on time, Igor. And I use Morporkian dollars.'

'I don't mind if people give me other money, 'long as I can spend it,' Igor grumbled, wiping down the bar. 'And 'sides, you aren't the only one. Mr Ixolite pays in advance 'cos he comes in at the crack of dawn, and Captain Angua always pays for her pint, pays extra now I've recommended Mrs Proust to her-'

'CAN THEY TALK LIKE THIS, IGOR?'

Igor visibly shook. 'I'll leave you to it, then, miss.'

Susan sighed, tried to empty the last few drops of alcohol from her glass - Igor may have given his spirits names, but they were all pure alcohol diluted with water from the Ankh* - and stared out through the smoke haze that always seemed to be present in Biers, even though she had never seen anything which smoked.

*Well, possibly mixed. Diluted is a rather specific term, but a drop of the Ankh only served to make the drink more potent. Igor's better spirits had a larger proportion of ethanol.

She was mad. In the furious sense, not yet the 'foaming at the mouth' sense, though the alcohol was starting to make her brain go a little fuzzy.

Mad that he had the nerve to presume that she could just turn up and save the world. Mad that he thought that she felt that she was ordinary, that having Death as your relative didn't mean that your social life was null and void and that you had to stare at doorknobs occasionally to remember what they were for. Mad because she wanted to save the world, she wanted to help him, but that would just prove that she would run anywhere and bow to his every command because of some stupid genetics!

She was so furious, concentrating only on the red rage which burned through her, that she didn't notice that she was downing a dozen shots that Igor, extremely reluctant to hear the voice again, had placed in front of her. He had also been taking the money out of her bag as she drank it, but had figured that she would have such a hangover in the morning that it wouldn't matter.

Susan blinked and stood up, sweeping the glasses onto the floor with her sleeve and not noticing.

'Bye, Igor!' she called behind her, staggering towards the door and neatly tripping over an umbrella that someone had carelessly dropped.

'Do you want me to get someone to walk you back?' Igor asked, knowing that the Watch would give you hell if you let a completely hammered young woman out in the Shades, regardless of her ancestry.

''m fine, Igor!' She laughed. 'I'm Death's granddaughter! What can get me?'

* * *

In the gloom, she could figure out two figures walking towards her. A young woman, who just seemed odd, and an older man who was glaring at her. They were wearing armour.

She laughed hysterically as she caught sight of her distorted face in the battered armour, fractured into a dozen pieces and oddly yellow coloured, which contrasted with the bright white of her hair even in the fog.

The woman held her arm briefly until Susan shook her off. 'Are you okay?' she asked. 'How much have you had to drink?'

Susan tried to concentrate. ''m fine.' She laughed again. 'You're the Watch!'

'Well, she hasn't forgotten everything,' the older man said dryly, taking her shoulder. 'Do you know her, captain?'

'I've seen her in Biers a few times,' the woman said, glancing at her. 'Death's granddaughter, it's rumoured.'

'By who?' Susan asked sharply, taking her poker out and wielding it around her head. 'An' you're Captain Angua, you're a werewolf!'

'You could hurt someone with that,' the man told her, grabbing her wrists and cuffing them whilst the woman pulled the poker out of her hand.

'Do you have anyone who can take you home?' Angua asked.

Susan considered it.

'Apart from Death?' the man asked, chuckling.

'Don't, sir.'

'Sorry, captain.' The man turned to Susan again. 'Anyone?'

* * *

Lobsang walked wearily into the cell and sat down next to a still inebriated Susan, who was giggling at the obscene graffiti on the ceiling.

'Susan?'

She pointed to the diagram. 'Look! 's completely wrong. That bit should-'

Lobsang took her hand and rolled her eyes at the officer on jail duty, an eager looking constable who had tried to polish his breastplate up. 'Yes, I know, Susan. Now, they've said that I can take you home if you don't go anywhere near a cart or a bridge.'

''s comfy here,' Susan said, sounding annoyed.

'I'm sure it is. But if you spend any longer in here they're going to have to charge you, and Captain Angua's already in a bad mood after you recognised her, so is likely to find a huge list of offences right up to looking at her drunkly. Now, can you stand up?'

She stood up slowly, swaying slightly. 'Volume of this room's twelve hundred feet square,' she told him seriously. 'I worked it out.'

'It's all coming back,' Lobsang muttered. 'Thanks, constable.'

* * *

Death appeared at the foot of her bed, surrounded by hooded grey figures.

TELL THEM, SUSAN.

'Tell 'em what?' She sat up and looked around her. 'Is this real?'

WHAT IS REALITY ANYMORE?

'What so you mean?' She focused on him. 'The world's going to end, you said.'

THE WORLD COULD HAVE ALREADY ENDED.

'Then you don't need me!'

SUSAN, WHAT IS IT LIKE TO BE HUMAN?

She paused, and thought.

_Seeing, through eyes as clear as crystal and just as unfathomable, seeing the shattered facets reflect the world back at you in a brightness that can't be real, shouldn't be real. _

_The feel of a feather against your skin, a thousand receptors buzzing to give you the softest of touches against pale flesh so easily bruised. _

_Voices crowding together, thousand of pitches woven in a complex pattern; being able to distinguish one against the backdrop of chaos which surrounds you. _

_The hot touch of someone's hand against you who you love or just want, the feel of a kiss or the burn as they leave. _

_Emotions crowding around, leaving no space for rationality or being sensible, that god forsaken word, curse. _

_Belief, conviction, personality, the thrill of knowing when you're right and the despair when someone else beats you, even at something as trivial as Cripple Mister Onion._

From far away, though right in front of her, one said, What's Cripple Mister Onion?

_The smell of chocolate or the Ankh, blocking out all other senses. The taste of a hot chilli burning your tongue and making your eyes stream, and the soreness of your eyes after you've cried yourself to sleep for the fifth night running, the ache of insomnia, the depth of sleep. _

_Feeling the vitality of a place sizzling in your mind, pulling you towards it. _

_The mess of alcohol, the thrill, the joy of little glasses. Or big ones, the glow of amber in a pint or the blurred vision which comes when you look through glass. Sorrow, laughter, boredom, heart ache, exhilaration, the noise of chattering or the silence of the bereaved who want to drink the world away. _

_Happiness flowering within you, love soaring upwards._

_Tastes, sounds, smells, seeing life glitter past, instantly gone but such a hard habit to break._

Around her, Auditors felt humanity. They couldn't cope.

The sound of an echoing voice which came straight through to your conscience.

**THAT WILL BE ALL**, Azrael ordered.

The Auditors collapsed as he brought his hands around.

* * *

She blinked.


	63. Laugh - Carrot and Angua

She ran.

Up winding staircases and through the maze of rooms in the embassy, jumping down steps and trying door handles to see which were locked and which she could hide in. It wouldn't be hard for them to find her, blood was dripping from a dozen cuts and, like her, Carrot always seemed to know where she was, but she was damned if she wasn't going to try to avoid them.

She couldn't go out, though. He might still be there.

She finally found a door which yielded to her and swung it open, darting inside and slamming it behind her. From far away she could hear the muffled thud of shoes on stairs, coming closer.

Leaning against the door, she breathed. Concentrating on the feeling of carpet under her feet and the cold air blowing against her skin instead of the blood sliding down her arms and legs, she stared up at the ceiling, painted a dark, regal blue.

She started to laugh.

She didn't know why. It was a breathy, aching, screaming laugh which seemed to echo around the empty room and make it bone-chillingly cold, and it was hysterical. There was no reason for her to be laughing, she should be crying, she should be yelling and shouting with the pain and the anger which had replaced her blood. She shouldn't be laughing.

The door swung open. Carrot caught her as she fell backwards.

* * *

Angua was sitting on a stool down in the kitchen with a hastily drafted in Igor complete with the collection of scars, stitches and uneven limbs, who had heard that Igor was no more and had come to enquire. He was standing over her with a needle and thread and a calculating expression, one that was never good to see on an Igor. It meant they were up to something.

'You know,' he said pensively, 'I could give you some wonderful thcars. Very decorative.'

'Could you give her _no_ scars?' Sybil asked apprehensively from the window, where she was staring out of the blank snow and visualising droplets of blood falling on it and the figure of Sam, falling under the weight of a wolf, a monster with those vicious eyes and sharpened claws…

'Oh, yeth, but they could be very fetching. I do pierthings now, you know, they're proving very popular.'

'Just the cuts, please,' Angua said weakly, holding herself up with her back pressed firmly against the rough wall so that she couldn't slip down.

'Are you thure?'

'Completely.'

'Oh, well,' Igor said sadly, threading the needle and positioning himself next to Angua's arm.

As the needle slipped in Angua winced, but gritted her teeth and made sure she stayed conscious. It was taking a lot of effort and the blood seeping out of her from a dozen places probably wasn't helping.

'Angua, dear?' Sybil asked.

'Yes?'

'About you and...and Carrot...'

'What about us?' Angua asked. She could feel her eyes closing.

'Are you planning to have children?'

Angua's eyes opened quickly and she stared up at the reassuring blankness of the ceiling, made grimy by the boiling of sausages. Igor frowned, his hand on her wrist as he delicately stitched the weeping gashes and measured her pulse.

'Can you _pleathe_ try not to exatherbate the problem by increathing the blood preththure, Lady Sybil? It'th not good for her,' he said, counting under his breath.

Sybil sighed and moved over to sit next to Angua. 'Sorry, dear. It's just that with one thing and another-'

'You're pregnant, aren't you?' Angua said softly.

'How did you know?'

'Werewolf, remember. And I could see where the conversation was going.'

Sybil nodded and twisted her skirt in her hands. 'Angua, I'm scared.'

'Of what?'

'Of the whole thing, really.' Sybil smiled bitterly, an unusual expression on her normally kindly face. 'Whether I'll be too old to carry it, whether something will happen. Whether Sam'll be there.'

'He will. He wouldn't miss it for the world.'

'Would he miss it for the Watch?' Sybil asked, concentrating on a patch of carpet. 'Oh, I know he'd do everything to be there. I just...worry.'

Igor pulled the thread tighter as he made to snip the end of the thread off and Angua let out a sharp gasp. Sybil grabbed her hand.

'I'm thorry, my lady.'

'Just sergeant, Igor. Not my lady.'

'You're a lady?' Sybil exclaimed.

'You went to school with my mother, didn't you?'

'Sorry, it just slipped my mind.' Sybil regarded her, noting how similar her features were to her mother - the blonde hair, the sharp cheekbones - but how the whole stance, the whole expression was poles apart. Serafine always looked so self-assured, confident that she could do whatever she wanted to whoever she liked because everyone knew her name. Angua, though, looked like she'd rather remain unobtrusive forever. Her eyes flickered around every so often, as if she was looking for a way out.

'You don't act much like a lady, do you.'

It was a statement rather than a question and Angua's lips twisted as she tried to smile through the pain in her arm. 'Lady Delphine Angua von Uberwald.' She spat into the fire. 'Gods, what a reputation.'

'Or Sergeant Angua.'

'It's a bit more catchy, isn't it?' Angua joked, then she stilled. 'Besides, it helps avoid awkward questions.'

She winced as Igor finished stitching the last cut on her arm and pulled the skin taut around the wound. Wolfgang's teeth had managed to rake down the length of her upper arm, slicing through the flesh, toughened from days in the sun and rain, as if it was butter.

'I'll have to deal with the one on your thtomach next, thargeant. It'th a deep one.'

'Have you got any painkillers?'

'No, but I do have thith _lovely_ pair of kidneyth fresh from a woman about your age. I think they would look thuperb.'

This Igor seemed to be even more focused on self-improvement than the last, going as far as to give himself limbs of different colours to see if race had any impact on limb strength. The results, so far, were inconclusive.

'Do I need them?'

'Well, you should never mithth an opportunity, that'th what I alwayth thay.'

'Just seal up the cut and let me go, Igor,' Angua said wearily, lying down on the floor which was now doing a passable impression of a surgery table. At least it was clean.

As Igor placed a sheet over her legs to preserve some semblance of dignity, Carrot walked through the door and tried to lurk in the shadows. Angua could smell him from a mile away, though; that aroma of soap and armour polish which was present even now, a thousand miles away from the city. Maybe it was built in.

'You can come in, Carrot,' she told him. He walked over to the stool which she had just vacated and took her hand as Igor inserted the first stitch. She didn't say a word, just gripped his hand a little stronger.

Sybil, eyes full of compassion and what Angua would have sworn was a hint of fear, gave them a nod and left the room. Igor looked around, puzzled, then returned to his work.

'How many need stitches?' Carrot asked.

'Oh, only two or three. This is the worst.'

Carrot looked down at the gaping gash which had split open the skin he had looked at so many times, caressed with his fingers, kissed gently as she lay against him. 'Does it hurt?'

Angua tried to shrug with her back against the cold stone floor, which just resulted in her shoulder blades grazing the floor and Igor's needle jolting. 'Wolves don't fight fair, Carrot, even when they're werewolves.'

'I didn't expect you were going to get hurt this badly.'

'Carrot, he's a werewolf. We're very simplistic in that way - it's either death or nothing. I got lucky.'

'And you know this, but you still attacked him.'

'He was after you.' She closed her eyes. 'It was important.'

'Mithth Angua, you can't fall athleep, you know.'

'Who says?' Angua murmured. She opened her eyes again, though, and stared up into Carrot's.

She felt…_everything_. The rush of snow and the sound of the trampling horse, Gaspode's whingeing and moaning throughout the whole thing, screams of fear, another wolf who she didn't recognise, the tantalising taste of roast chicken just too far away to reach… And then there was the pain, that ever present heartbreak which was destroying Carrot from the inside, ripping him into fragments which were blowing away in the blizzard. She felt tired feet and a broken arm and a few bruised ribs which she had seen coming but couldn't call out against. She felt all the times that Carrot had wanted to give up and didn't, because of some sort of loyalty or some sort of love.

As Igor snipped the last thread he stroked her hair gently, only once, and disappeared upstairs.

Wincing, she sat up and felt an unfamiliar tension in her stomach which wasn't from the stitches. She ran her hands through her hair and tried to wrap the sheet further around herself, even though Igor had probably never even considered that. There was the Code after all.

'Igor,' she asked. 'Could you bring me my clothes?'

Igor moved away from what Angua thought of as his toolbox and rooted around for a moment inside a leather rucksacks until he found something. As he pulled the garment out she recognised it.

'I didn't bring that,' she said, confused.

'Marthter Carrot brought it. He thaid that he thought you'd be needing it.'

_He thought I'd come back_, Angua said to herself as she pulled the dress on and did up the belt. _He was sure that I'd come back._

_He was convinced that he would win. Convinced that he would just whistle and I'd come running because that's what happened before, why should now be any different? Convinced that I was good enough._

A thought, completely unbidden, swam up in her mind. Something Gaspode had said.

'I'd wonder if he gambled everything on it,' he had said whilst she was staring into the fire that he had made, trying to see some sort of order in the darting flames.

_I'm almost certain._

* * *

It was afterwards. Burials, coronations and promises had already happened, and it wasn't even nightfall yet. The moon hadn't risen from behind the trees, as if it was lurking in case she spotted it and glared it into submission.

Angua walked silently along the corridor and knocked on the door of Carrot's room. He opened it quickly, almost like he had been waiting there all along, and they stood face to face for what seemed like the first time in forever, staring at each other.

'Can I come in?' Angua asked quietly. He held the door open as she walked through and leaned against the back wall.

He gestured to the bed. 'You can sit down,' he said nervously. As she moved over towards it he gestured towards his mini kettle that someone had felt it prudent and completely unnecessary to include. 'Can I get you something to drink? Something to eat?'

'I'm fine, Carrot.'

He turned away from the chest of drawers and came to sit next to her on the bed. 'I'm sorry, I just…'

Taking a deep breath, she leaned in and kissed him.

He found her waist on automatic and pulled her closer, and as she closed her eyes and just forgot about the world and all the hell and the shit that existed in it she ended up just concentrating on him, how he loved her no matter what, how he would be loyal right up until the very edge of the Disc and maybe even beyond and how he was a really good kisser…

The thought flew into her head unconsciously and she felt her skin grow warm. Gently, she placed her hands on his chest and pulled away.

'Is something wrong?' he asked, full of concern.

'No. I just need to say something before I get distracted and if I don't say it now I'll never have the chance to again and…'

He put his hand gently on her wrist and she fell quiet.

'What is it?'

'I'm sorry, Carrot. I'm so, so sorry.'

He gently followed the thin bones in her wrist as he stared at the bedspread. 'It's all right.'

'But it's not! I shouldn't have gone, I shouldn't have left you and made you leave too.'

'You didn't make me leave.'

'But I left and you followed.'

His fingers paused. 'Of course I did. I love you.'

There should have been cymbals and cherubs. There should have been fireworks. There should have been golden light and angels, but there didn't _need_ to be.

All there was was Carrot's hand on her arm and Angua's breath out when she finally remembered that oxygen was necessary.

'You never said,' Angua managed.

'I didn't think I needed to,' he said simply. He stood up and walked over to the window, pulling the curtains shut against the moonlight.

'Carrot?' she asked.

'Yes?'

'Why?'

He sat back down on the bed and wrapped a blanket around his shoulders which were covered in goose bumps from the cold, presumably. 'Is there a reason? Does there ever have to be?'

She smiled. 'Good answer.'

He traced the cut on her arm and frowned. 'What would have been a bad answer?'

Sighing, she leaned back onto the bed. 'Oh, I don't know. Something like 'You're good in bed' or 'I like a girl with spirit'.'

'Why would anyone say that?'

'I honestly don't know.'

'It's not like it's a compliment, is it?' he said pensively. 'I mean, the first one might be, but the last one certainly isn't.' He sniffed. 'Makes you sound like a horse or something.'

She laughed, a slightly hesitant one which was strengthened with Carrot's confused look. She hadn't laughed properly in ages, only hysterical shrieks when she was hurting too much to scream, but she had cried enough.

'Carrot.'

'Yes.'

'I love you, you know.'

He smiled. 'I know.'

She pulled him closer, daring the moon to interrupt, and met his lips. She closed her eyes and just let herself forget everything.

And after a while, for Angua von Uberwald, the Discworld moved. But at least there was someone there to hold her hand.

* * *

Angua awoke in the middle of the night and stared at the wall until she felt Carrot stir beside her. The mattress sank as he rolled over and slipped his arms around her waist, lying against her back with his head resting on her shoulder.

She let herself relax into him and her breathing slowed.

'Angua?' he whispered, his breath tickling her neck.

'Yes?'

'Are you coming back, then?'

She smiled sadly and gripped his hand. 'There's nothing for me here.'

He sighed and she felt his chest move against her back. 'That's not a good reason to come back.'

She rolled over to face him and saw the hurt in his eyes again, which sliced through her like a silver blade. 'Maybe it's not the only reason.'

His eyes lit up slightly, though he couldn't disguise the worry. 'It'll do for now.'

* * *

They were all sitting on the floor of the coach apart from Carrot, who didn't like cards, especially the game that they were playing, and was sitting on the bench reading a book about cabbages with his finger moving across the page.

'Three,' Cheery proclaimed, putting her card on top of the pile.

'Cheat,' Detritus rumbled.

That was why Carrot didn't like the game. Cheat was fundamentally about lying, which was why Angua was so good at it and why Detritus, who was often several minutes behind everyone else and had a tendency to shout out 'Cheat' randomly, was so bad at it. Carrot, who believed that lying was a cardinal sin and blushed whenever he tried it, had never played a game.

Angua held up her last card. It was a four. They knew that, she knew that, and she put it down on the pile.

'Cheat?' Detritus said hopefully.

'Pick 'em up, Detritus,' Angua said, moving over to the bench and gesturing for Carrot to move along a bit. Detritus and Cheery were now engaged in a brutal card game known only to trolls and dwarfs which involved, for some reason, the Piecemaker. It was cultural, Detritus said, because he had put a fake ruby on the safety catch, and everyone now hoped that it would persuade him to use it more.

She leaned up against Carrot and tucked her legs up underneath her. 'Good book?'

'Not really.' He held it up and she nearly choked with laughter. 'It's not quite what I expected.'

She took it from him and turned it over so that she could see the front cover. 'Carrot, this is a history of brassi_eres_.'

'Not brassicas?'

'No, Carrot, not broccoli and cabbages and the like. And I think I'm just going to take it away from you now in case you have any funny ideas.'

'They're remarkably complicated, you know.'

'Is that so?' asked Angua, someone who had always considered bras a remarkable necessity after experiencing the feeling that she should be wearing three at once.

'Do you know, in Uberwaldean their word for Morpork sounds the same as the word for thong,' Carrot said helpfully. Angua stared at the ceiling for a moment or two before replying.

'Thank you, Carrot, for sharing that,' she said blankly, not mentioning that she already knew.

He smiled at her and put a warm arm around her shoulders.

The coach juddered on.

* * *

By the time Mister Vimes returned three weeks later, as he had promised, the Watch House was running like clockwork again. Fred Colon had been returned to his post as Custody Officer, the proposal for the Guild of Watchmen had been withdrawn as soon as Carrot found out about it and the door was repaired and authentically painted with the well-known phrase Coppers are Barsturds after half an hour, remarkably without anyone seeing them. Fred Colon suspected it was an inside job but was hastily shushed by Nobby.

And Angua had grudgingly moved into Carrot's office after learning that her room, with its floors reinforced against excessive paper, would be needed for Sergeant Flint, who still had no idea what he was doing. It wasn't all bad, though, once she had created a policy whereby she would proofread all of Carrot's reports before he handed them in.

Nothing had changed.

Except for now both of them looked a little happier. More relaxed, certainly; all the new recruits had noticed how Sergeant Angua seemed a little less eager to disembowel people than before.

One night, a couple of days after Vimes had returned, Carrot walked Angua home through the damp, cold streets of Ankh-Morpork, grabbing her arm every time she slipped on the frozen slush.

They reached the doorway to Mrs Cake's and she pulled him closer.

And suddenly, just for that brief second, the world was a little brighter. They went inside.


	64. Hold

**So, it ends. It's been a great ride, people, thanks for reviewing and viewing and favouriting and all the rest :)**

**If you have any chapters that you want me to expand upon or turn into a proper fic then just PM me, I'm welcome to suggestions. **

**Let's finish in my true style - angst, fluff and sarcasm. That's my catchphrase now. **

**Enjoy :)**

* * *

Susan stormed into the room and flung the scythe down onto the table, ignoring how it sliced straight through the wood.

'Rough day?' Lobsang asked, turning a page of his book over. It was a heavy, black volume which (although he would never tell Susan) he had stolen from Death's library as a bit of light reading whilst humanity settled down for the night.

'THAT STUPID-'

'Susan, you've forgotten to turn the voice off,' Lobsang sighed, looking up at her.

Susan cleared her throat in annoyance. 'Well, I'm sorry. It's quite hard to switch off being Death.'

'Not Death. Death's _granddaughter_. And you do realise it's just whilst he's on holiday?'

She took off her cloak and sat down heavily. 'Oh, I know. I'm counting down the days, for gods' sakes, until he's back. Why does he need to take a holiday?'

'He said he was going to see an old acquaintance.'

'He can exist outside time, Lobsang! Why does he need a holiday to do that?'

'Maybe it makes him feel a bit more normal.'

She shrugged, and leaned against him. 'I don't like being Death. I wish I was Time instead.'

'It gets old after a while. All those stupid humans screwing around with time and making my life a living hell.'

'Why do they _have_ humanity? Whose stupid idea was it to make human beings in the first place?'

'Careful, you're sounding like an Auditor.'

'Oh, be quiet,' she said, standing up. 'And it's not as if I even miss work doing it. He had to pick the one time that I actually spend with you to go off on some stupid holiday with some stupid woman I've never met?'

'A woman? _Him_?'

'Oh, he's known her for years. Before I was born, apparently, though he took me to see her once.'

'How?'

'Who knows? He's Death, you don't exactly enquire about what he does.'

Lobsang stood up and put his arms around her waist as she tried to undo time and fix the table. 'Hey, that's my trick,' he said as the two pieces flew up and joined together again before crashing down onto the floor.

'I've been practicing. But don't you dare start walking through walls or DOING THE VOICE.'

'You're sexy when you do that.'

'No I'm not. I'm terrifying. Unless you have some very weird tastes, which would explain why we're living together.'

'No weird tastes, just you.'

'You're being very roman_tick_,' she said, turning round to look at him through narrowed eyes. 'What's going on?'

As she was speaking, a cloud of paper stars was fountaining up and surrounding her head. As she wiped a couple out of her eyes and looked at Lobsang's slightly hurt expression, the penny dropped. 'Oh.'

'Yes.'

'Oh, god, Lobsang, I'm so sorry. I just forgot, you know with the whole Death thing and-'

To her utter amazement Lobsang was grinning as he kissed her. 'Don't worry. You're allowed to be occasionally distracted.'

'But this is important! I mean, it's been a whole year.'

'Lu-Tze bet six weeks.'

'Ronnie bet two. Myria told me that she bet a lifetime before she died.'

'Death by chocolate. Great way to go.' Lobsang let the stars fall to the ground as he moved towards her. 'How long do you bet?'

* * *

In a golden field far away, Death is screwing around with time*.

*But not in that way.

Finally, Renata Flitworth appeared, smoothing down her dress and glaring at him. 'It took you long enough.'

I'M SORRY. BLAME THE QUANTUM.

'Oh, it's always the bloody quantum with you, isn't it?'

Renata moved and sat down on a small hillock by a tree, which was slowly catching the black light as its black leaves moved in the breeze. She looked out over the swaying golden corn and smiled ruefully. 'I always said that there was too much black in this place.'

I LIKE BLACK.

'It's a bit macabre, isn't it?'

I AM THE DEFINITION OF MACABRE, Death said, affronted. IT'S IN THE JOB DESCRIPTION.

But Miss Flitworth wasn't listening, instead she was looking, no, glaring at the basket that Death was holding. 'You brought a _picnic_?'

I THOUGHT IT WOULD BE NICE.

'Nice. Well, it is nice, it's just a bit…'

A BIT WHAT?

'A bit odd. I mean, it isn't every day that you sit down to have a picnic with Death.'

IT ISN'T EVERY DAY THAT YOU ARE CALLED BACK FROM THE AFTERLIFE, MISS FLITWORTH.

'It's a sort of ritual now, isn't it? Once a year. I can almost set my calendar by it.'

I AM A CREATURE OF HABIT. SANDWICH?

'Thank you.'

He passed it to her, and although technically she didn't, as a spirit, need to eat she did so anyway.

'The ham's deep fried.'

THAT WOULD BE ALBERT. HE DOES NOT TRUST ANYTHING PINK.

'It's…crunchy.'

Death lay back and stared at the midnight sky which, contrary to all the rules of the world, had a lighter black sun in the centre of it. SO, HOW IS THE AFTERLIFE TREATING YOU?

'Oh, it's alright. The clouds get a bit boring after a while, though I've made friends with a few people. Well, I say people…'

WHAT DO YOU MEAN?

'Well, there are a couple of dwarfs there, including one called Cuddy. He used to be a policeman, he said.' She took another bite of the fried sandwich. 'Funny man. Got one glass eye.'

I REMEMBER HIM. HE DIDN'T NOTICE THE ROPE, MUCH TO HIS MISFORTUNE.

'Y'know, I never expected there to be actual clouds. But then again our idea of Death is having a scythe, so you do.'

BUT I ADDED THE BLUE EDGE TO IT.

Renata glanced at it. 'Oh, yeah. It's a nice touch.'

THANK YOU. IT'S A NEW ONE, SINCE MY GRANDDAUGHTER BROKE THE OTHER ONE.

'That's good of her. How is she?'

TALLER. MORE AUTHORITATIVE. STUBBORN.

'She found anyone yet? You were worried about her being lonely, if I remember.'

YES. THE INCARNATION OF TIME.

'Well, opposites attract, I suppose.'

I AGREE.

They sat there, silent apart from Renata's laborious chewing. They didn't really need to talk; both were creatures of habit, so both knew exactly what the other was thinking.

'I never thanked you, you know,' Miss Flitworth said conversationally.

FOR WHAT?

'For the time.'

Death shrugged. IT WAS A GIFT. I FELT YOU DESERVED THE CLOSURE.

'Me and Johnny live together now. Well, in the afterlife.'

EVERYONE SHOULD HAVE SOMEONE.

'And you? Do you have someone?'

I HAVE SUSAN. I HAVE DEATH OF RATS. I HAVE YOU, I SUPPOSE.

'I suppose so.'

* * *

In a parallel universe, anything can happen.

There are two different perspectives on being able to see what could have happened. Some people think that if they try hard enough they can get the past back and they can change what happened because they've seen that in one of the parallel universes they were happier, completely disregarding the passage of time and the fact that this is only in one of the parallel universes. Others, the more practical, say that everything that happens stays happened, and that we can't change it, so why bother looking?

These people are afraid of what they'll see.

Esme was afraid of what she would see, though more because Mustrum was standing over her with a hopeful expression on his face. She sighed, and glared at the fishing buoy until it told her the truth.

A truth, anyway.

A scene came into focus as if it was floating up to meet them. There was a kitchen table, with people sitting around it and laughing. If she squinted, she could recognise her and Mustrum there, surrounded by people who looked slightly like them - one girl had Esme's startlingly blue eyes, another one wore Mustrum's permanently cheerful expression.

'We had children,' Mustrum said in awe.

'No, _they_ had children. We're not them.'

'But we could have been them.'

'But we ain't.' She turned round to him. 'Mustrum, don't you get it? We're not them, they're not us. We made one choice, somewhere else we made a different choice and became completely different people.'

'But this is what could have been!'

'Yes, with a squillion chances. We didn't get them.'

Another picture swam into focus. It showed two children huddled in a corner whilst two figures - one, a skinny woman holding a frying pan, the other a terrified man trying to reason with her - screamed at each other.

'You see, we could have been that. There ain't nothing to say that at some point we didn't end up killing each other.'

'But there's a chance we could have been happy.'

'And what about all the other chances? When you died in a fire, when I fell off a bridge, when one of our kids ran away to the big city because we wouldn't stop fighting? What about them?'

He watched her sadly. 'Can't you even for once think that something good might have happened?'

'No.'

'Why not?'

'Because then I'd just end up missing it,' she said brusquely, turning away.

'Esme.'

She turned round and he grabbed hold of her chin gently, pulling it towards him. His kiss was as light as a feather, simply because he knew she'd slap him if he tried anything else. But she felt…nothing. Absolutely nothing. She had trained herself not to after sitting on the hill and watching his carriage drive off, not noticing or caring whether he looked back.

He moved away, and looked upset. 'Esme, I'm sorry.'

'No. Don't be. Just…' she paused, 'I'm sorry too.'

'I was the one who left.'

'I was the one who didn't follow you.'

He shrugged and stood up. 'Well, I guess this is it.'

She nodded and turned back to the fishing buoy, unable to meet his eye. He rested a hand on her shoulder, then walked out the door.

* * *

'I think I'm going to have to let Tawneee down gently,' Nobby told Angua, up to her eyes in paperwork, dismally.

'What?'

'Tawneee.'

'Oh.' Angua turned away from the sheet of expenses and looked Nobby up and down. He wasn't looking dejected in any way, in fact he seemed almost relieved. '_Why_, Nobby?'

'Well, I don't think we've got that much in common,' he said sadly.

Thank gods, Angua thought. 'In what way?'

'Well, we're not exactly looking for the same things. And I can find my way around the kitchen better than her, and her Distressed Pudding,' Nobby shuddered, 'was not up to scratch.'

There were a million answers to that. She's the only girl you've ever asked out who's said yes, she's stunning, she laughs at your jokes, even the one about the tiny piano, who cares about cooking when all you eat is bacon grease…

They managed to manifest themselves into a rather hesitant 'Right…'

Nobby nodded sombrely. 'I just don't think she's looking for commitment.'

'Commitment,' Angua replied blankly.

'Yeah. And she's lovely, a really nice girl, but I don't think it'd ever work.'

Tawneee came up to Angua as she was trying to have a minute's peace in Biers sipping a gin and tonic, and collapsed onto a bar stool. Several of the clientele turned to look at someone who they suspected was normal, at least by their standards.

'You shouldn't be in here!' she hissed.

'Why not?' Tawneee asked, snorting into a tissue.

Gods, the girl could be as thick as a rectangular building thing sometimes. 'What's going on?'

The girl sniffed again. 'Nobby. He said I weren't his type. Said we weren't,' she scrunched up her face in concentration, 'what's that word, begins with a curly c? Means fit together.'

Angua couldn't see how Nobby and Tawneee could fit together by the laws of ordinary physics; for one thing, she was a foot and a half taller than him and probably broader, even if she worked in a strip club. Nobby had the sort of legs which shouldn't be able to hold up his body.

'Compatible?' she suggested.

'Yeah, that's it. Said I didn't know what a man wanted, but Granny told me not to be a floosy and that what a man really wants is a bit of peace.'

This was news to Angua. She stood up abruptly and tugged Tawneee's arm.

'What are we doing?'

'We, Tawneee, are going to pick up guys. Well, you are.'

From across the room, two pairs of eyes met. Nobby and Tawneee just stared at each other and the world stopped for them.

Angua was asleep in the corner, unable to keep up with Tawneee's iron hard stomach, so she missed the romance when Nobby walked up to the dancer and got down on one knee. He whispered something.

A stiletto heel came down in a really unfortunate place as Nobby yelped. Angua was jerked awake only to see Tawneee raise her foot.

'Tawneee!' she yelled. The girl turned to face her and Nobby took the opportunity to crawl away.

'Why did you do that?' Angua asked.

'He asked me to marry him,' the girl said tearfully.

Angua's imagination shut down and her mouth opened and shut a few times.

'Well done,' she said weakly.

* * *

Sacharissa stared down at the blank page of her unusually empty notebook. Behind her, the printing press clunked into place and started to whir as Goodmountain slotted the letters into place.

She had several stories to write - one on the Ankh-Morpork Flower Show, another on the recent death of Wuffles, another on the impending possibility of a banshee in the Watch - but her brain, usually wired only to think in headlines, seemed to be blank. Usually the writing could drip off the end of her pen without her even thinking about it, especially when it was the Annual Flower Show, but today she held the pen above the paper and not a single word fell out.

William walked in, nodded awkwardly to her, and disappeared into the back room to consult Otto.

Her and William had attempted, once again, to go out for dinner, but had been interrupted by some members of the Watch trying to chase Carcer Dun across the roof of the building and had to report the unfortunate death of one of the constables from a slit throat. It was the sort of thing to put anyone off dinner, especially when you were the ones who had to report it.

At the moment they weren't really a couple, just two colleagues who happened to kiss on occasion. It was getting boring and Sacharissa, who spent her life waiting for the joy of the action even if she was only the one reporting it, was getting frustrated.

How hard would it be, just for once, for them to be able to go out to dinner and not see something which would put them back on the job?

William appeared again and walked over to her desk, twisting his hands together.

'Are you alright?' she asked.

'We're going out,' he told her, throwing her her coat. 'I've reserved a table at The Genuan Experience, the new recruits'll deal with anything and Otto is under express orders not to iconograph us. Deal?'

She grinned and pulled her coat on, wondering what had prompted this. From behind her, Otto winked at William.

They walked out into the street, which seemed quiet for now, although there were still a relatively high number of watchmen around the offices. Normally they didn't go near the Drum, but the paper might have changed their minds.

William nodded at them, ignoring Sergeant Angua's glare, and quickly led Sacharissa down the street until they were out of range.

'William?'

He looked around furtively and ducked into a doorway. He dropped to one knee and Sacharissa's mouth dropped open.

'Sacharissa Cripslock,' he said hesitantly. 'Will you marry me?'

Sacharissa considered it for a moment, just a fraction of a second whilst her thoughts assembled. Yes, she supposed she loved him, and she definitely cared for him. It would make sense, she might finally progress past kissing him, and yes, she did love him, now she thought about it...

She smiled. 'Will we have to report it?'

* * *

Magda didn't usually let Tilda within a hundred yards of a lit match, certainly not within reach of a whole box of matches, but this time she felt that the girl had a right to them.

The match flamed in the darkness and Magda made sure to keep her eyes shut against the glare. Tilda's eyes, though, were wide open and staring at the light.

It illuminated the bottles of whiskey which they had wrapped in strips of their uniforms so that they didn't clink as they made their way across the mountains. Technically it wasn't whiskey, it was pure hangman, but any alcohol would do. Tilda had been very certain on that.

Magda took a gulp from one of the bottles and winced as her stomach turned into flames and tears started trickling from her eyes. Tilda shook her head slightly and she put the bottle back.

They were standing outside the Girls' Working School, listening to the silence which glowed from it. The darkness had thickened to velvet as they had gotten closer, though it was slowly being burnt away by the light that Tilda held in her hand. The darkness was always stifling in the place, darkness full of possibilities and threats which, in some ways, were even worse than feeling the pain. Paranoid that someone would haul her out of bed and drag her through the night, Magda had spent many a night staring at the ceiling, shining bright white from the paint that some of the girls had spent weeks applying to the ceilings so that no one could sleep.

Magda nodded once and she stepped forward, match raised.

It was thrown onto a pile of tinder just outside the wall to the Grey House, in perfect range of the timbers in the room. The tinder flamed high as Magda chucked one of the bottles of hangman, open and streaming out the foul smelling alcohol, onto it.

There was a brief second where the fire simply crackled. Then she threw on another bottle and there was a noise which shook the world as the bottles exploded.

'There are people in there,' Tilda whispered, holding another lit match.

'They're half dead anyway,' Magda said harshly, grabbing her hand. 'Come on.'

She dragged Tilda, trembling slightly from the cold, down the pathway away from the House. Gravel crunched under their cheap boots, inherited from the barracks, as they heard the first shouts behind them and people started pouring out of unlocked doorways.

Finally, they found the ditch that they had stored their bags in and fell into it. Magda winced from the sharp stones which littered the bottom.

Tilda was still staring at what was now a colossal tower of flames. 'Do you think some got out?' she whispered.

'Yes,' Magda replied instantly, knowing what Tilda needed. But privately she didn't think anyone had a chance; you could criticise the nuns all you wanted to, but they were organised.

Tilda nodded dully. Magda reached out and put a hand on her arm.

'You couldn't save them,' she whispered.

Tilda just nodded half-heartedly again, as if she didn't really believe her.

They sat there, far enough away not to hear the screams but not so they couldn't imagine them.

The Grey House crumbled into black, smouldering, hellish dust.


End file.
